


Better With Friends

by Moonberry



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Blow Jobs, Cunnilingus, Drama, F/M, Face-Sitting, First Time, Friends With Benefits, Friends With Benefits To Lovers, Golden Deer Route, Masturbation, Pegging, Pining, Post-Time Skip, Praise Kink, Second Person, Semi-Public Sex, Sparring as foreplay, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, minor off-screen character death, no beta we die like Glenn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-15
Updated: 2020-05-13
Packaged: 2020-12-16 14:48:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 71,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21037961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moonberry/pseuds/Moonberry
Summary: Byleth and Ashe hook up. No strings attached. Theoretically.After he rejoins the Golden Deer in the aftermath of the battle at Ailell, Byleth happens across Ashe in the greenhouse at night, lit by the moon. It hits her like a truck how attracted she is to him. When she proposes they have some fun, he jumps at the idea.It’s just sex, so why do so many little things feel so different?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i've never posted smut before. bon ape tit  
hang w me on twitter @[moonberrytxt](http://twitter.com/moonberrytxt) :)

You’ve kept a close watch on Ashe since he defected to the Golden Deer in that unreasonably hot valley. Actually, you’re fairly sure your group of former students are no longer technically called the Golden Deer. That was just the name of a house in a school fallen to ruin. The members of your class have long since grown into capable adults, warriors, leaders, weathering the chaos of war and fighting tooth and nail to bring some peace in its place. They gather under the banner of your crest, a declaration of resistance, a sign that says so much more than ‘we’re kids from the Leicester Alliance’.

But honestly, they’ll always be your Golden Deer.

Lorenz warned you against trusting Ashe twice before your party arrived back at Garreg Mach. You found it hard to blame him - Ashe _did_ try to accessorise Lorenz’s eye with an arrow. To Lorenz’s credit, he was as respectful about it as anyone could ask. He offered his cautions quietly, as privately as you could surrounded by soldiers. Of course, this wasn’t to go behind Ashe’s back and poison you against him. No, Lorenz voiced his cautions to you alone so as not to embarrass Ashe in front of any of his now-comrades. And, again, Ashe did try to kill him. That his heart hadn’t been in it didn’t change that.

You thanked him for the concern, promised him you wouldn’t let your guard down, and mused to yourself on how much he’d changed from the boy who’d complained to everyone who would listen about how unsuitable he found Claude for the position of future Alliance leader. This, you chose not to vocalise. They’d all grown, your former students, and you constantly found your heart swelling with pride at the people they’d become.

Yourself and Lorenz aren’t the only ones monitoring Ashe. There were, of course, those who seemed to accept him unconditionally. Perhaps unsurprisingly, Raphael welcomed him back with open arms. Literally. Ashe found himself on the receiving end of a tight bear hug before the lot of you had even gotten out of the Valley of Torment. He’d laughed, told Raph he couldn’t really breathe, and that was that. Ignatz followed suit (minus the bear-hug) soon after. Flayn was quick to believe in the good in him, and Hilda didn’t seem to want to put the effort into figuring him out one way or the other.

As for Marianne, you know the two of them were somewhat close before war broke out. For a day or two, she was jumpy around him. Even taking into account how tremendously she’d grown while your eyes were closed, you couldn’t be surprised at that. But it’s pretty easy to see how she feels now; she’s delighted to have her friend back.

Seteth watches Ashe with cool detachment, the picture of politeness and civility but as welcoming as a sheet of stone, more severe the more Flayn accepted the archer. Leonie told Ashe outright that she was happy to have him back, but just in case, he shouldn’t forget that she was the faster shot, and wouldn’t hesitate to prove it should he so much as think about betraying Captain Jeralt’s kid. Hey, did he want to go hunting?

You witnessed that exchange. From the look in his eyes, he’d found something scarier than ghosts.

Though you can tell she’s still keeping her eye out for fishy business, she’s been nothing but kind and warm to him since then, in line with the Leonie Pinelli you’ve had the pleasure of getting to know. And Lysithea? She has better things to do, she says, than waste time on someone she never really talked to to begin with. She’s on a tight schedule, and she has _priorities_.

Then there’s Duke Riegan himself. Claude, naturally, analyses his every interaction with the Alliance members. Outwardly, he’s all easy smiles and friendly banter, but you know him well, and he’s never less than alert. He’s always on the lookout for threats. Threats to those he cares about, who he’s taken responsibility for. Threats to his dreams. You think, though, that he soon realises what you already know — you can trust Ashe.

And you suppose that’s the difference between yourself and the others who’ve been watching Ashe. They had their eyes out for signs of betrayal. You wanted to make sure he was okay. He knows that some of the Deer mistrust him, even the ones who aren’t as upfront as Leonie. But he deals with it like a champion, in your estimation. It isn’t so much that he doesn’t mind — he wants to prove to them that he’s on the right side, he’s _always_ wanted to prove that he’s caring and just — but he certainly doesn’t resent them for it.

When you can’t sleep — and you just slept for five years, so you’ve probably overfilled your quota — you’ve taken to wandering the monastery and throwing yourself into any physical, menial tasks you can find. You seek out patches of rubble, broken fragments you can clear away with your hands, and dispose of what you can. You might have been using the monastery as a base for months, and the Knights did an admirable job kicking the place back to a livable standard, but there’s endless work to go. You’re helping, little by little, and occupying your hands helps clear your mind.

It’s one of these nights, while holding a small sack of rubble slung over your shoulder, when you see the shape of someone inside the greenhouse. Their silhouette is obscured by darkness, rippled and blurred by the mosaic of colours in the glass. You almost miss them. They’re in the far corner, and you only just catch sight of them as they move to crouch at the plants there, disappearing behind the stone walls. It’s a bit late for gardening, with only the light of the moon to guide you and all the stars in the sky glittering down. But admittedly, it’s also a bit late to be lugging a bag of rocks around. You’re curious enough to find out who else is up and getting to work at this hour that it eclipses your desire for solitude, so you push the glass door open and let yourself in.

“Ah, hello? Is someone there?” says the mysterious night gardener. Who isn’t all that mysterious any more, because it’s Ashe, you’d recognise that voice anywhere. He stays crouched at his plants. Must be busy with them.

You don’t answer at first. Instead, you walk the path in the middle of the greenhouse until you reach its intersection, then you turn to face him.

He looks up at you, and his silver hair catches the moonlight. “Professor! I’m sorry, I didn’t know it was you.” You don’t know why he’s apologising. “What brings you out here so late?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” you say. You look at him, crouched down there on the balls of his feet at the garden bed. He looks so small and bright and silvery, like a little piece of the moon itself fallen to Fodlan. He’s taller than you, sure, but he’s delicate. No one has ever accused you of that. He’s pretty and breakable, like a porcelain doll, sitting there so far beneath your eyes, unguarded and vulnerable, and _Goddess_, it hits you like a hammer to your ribs that you’ve never wanted anyone more. 

Huh. That’s… not entirely new, but neither is it entirely familiar. You’ve been with a small handful of men and women before. Usually other mercenaries whose paths happened to cross yours at the right moment (the ‘right moments’ tended to occur when jobs would send you and your father different ways for more than a couple of days at a time). But really _wanting_ one person in particular? For that desire to rise and curl inside you like smoke from a fire because of someone, instead of something that comes up in the heat of the moment with a warm, willing body in the right place at the right time?

Now, _that’s_ interesting. You wonder if he’d like to help you do something about it. You take a couple of steps towards him, just to watch his deft fingers at work.

He chuckles. His laugh is sweet and soft. Like the man himself. “You’re not wrong about that, I suppose. I… I like to come here to garden sometimes, when it’s late and quiet. Don’t get me wrong, I love being with with people, even if they’re not… ah, overly fond of me. Oh, not that I blame them! But sometimes it’s calmer when no one’s around.” Yeah, you can relate. “I used to spend time with Dedue in here, back when we were students. But he’s…” Ashe trailed off with a sigh, taking his eyes off the flowers again to look at you. “I’m just about done anyway. What about you, what wer— oh! What’s that you’re carrying? Can I help?” He stands, rubbing the excess dirt off his hands.

“Not with this, no,” you say. You jiggle the end of the sack so its contents clunk audibly together. “It’s just rubbish. I’ve been tidying the grounds.”

“You don’t have to do that, Professor. You already work so hard. Please, let me help you.”

Under the pretense of giving him an encouraging clap on the arm, you close the distance between the two of you a little more. “I can handle it, Ashe. I do it to relax. Sometimes it’s calmer when no one’s around.”

He chuckles again at that. His eyes, pale jade in the scant night light, crinkle at the corners. You’re hit with the overwhelming urge to count his freckles. “Okay, you got me there,” he admits. “The offer stands, but if you’re sure there’s nothing I can do for you—”

You open your hand. The sack of rocks hits the ground behind you with a crash. Ashe startles.

Narrowing your eyes a shade, you grin, like a cat might grin at a mouse. It’s a conscious action, not the kind of thing that comes to your face unbidden, but you’ve found it sends a clear message. “I didn’t say that.” Calmly, you step into his personal space. He takes a shuffling step back, but you keep moving towards him, carefully watching his face for any sign of distress. You find none; he mostly just seems a mixed of confused and surprised.

“N-no, I guess you didn’t,” he stammers. He follows that with a breathy, nervous laugh.

You’ve got him backed up against the stone pillar of the wall. Any closer and you’d be touching. “Tell me to drop it and I will,” you say softly. “Tell me you don’t want this and I’ll apologise and walk away, then I’ll never bother you like this again.”

He shakes his head quickly, as if you might disappear if he doesn’t answer fast enough. “No! No, I’m fine. This is… this is okay.”

You don’t need to be told twice. You press your palm flat against the glass beside his head and move just close enough that you can feel him breathing, pressing both of your chests together. His breath hitches and his eyes go wide as the moon. “So,” you begin, “you wanted to know if there was anything you could do for me?”

“U-um! Yes, uh, your wish is my command.” He stumbles over every other syllable, his face glowing pink. He’s trying _so_ hard to stay composed. To play along. It’s adorable. You’d like to know what it takes for that composure to completely shatter.

“How chivalrous,” you purr in his ear, relishing the way he shudders before you pull back just far enough to walk pair of fingers slowly up his sternum. His breathing takes on all the regularly and serenity of a torch in heavy winds. You let your eyes flick up in time to see him bite his lower lip — which you decide on the spot is something he needs to do more often — then you watch as your fingers make their leisurely journey. “You see, sometimes it is nice to spend time alone. But sometimes, when you’re spending that time alone, you stumble upon a pretty little archer among the flowers, looking like the Goddess herself put him there just for you. When that happens, suddenly you lose all interest in alone time.” You pause, your fingers stilling. “Also,” you say pointedly, “you might have to remind that pretty little archer to _breathe_, because people need air and you have much more interesting plans than helping him to the infirmary because he made himself pass out.”

He takes in a sudden breath like he’s just realised he has lungs. “Sorry,” he whispers, a shy smile tugging at his lips. His cheeks are dusted with a shade of pink that reminds you of candy, obvious even bleached of colour by the moonlight.

You cup his face in both of your hands and he almost melts into the gesture. “Not as sorry as I would’ve been had I let you hurt yourself. So, what do you say, Ashe? Care to help a lady out?”

He’s trying to suppress his smile, he’s really trying, but it’s not working in the slightest and by the Goddess you are grateful. “That depends. I don’t see where I figure into what you described.”

“Oh? Care to explain?”

He straightens his posture and has to look down a smidge further to meet your eyes. “You seem to want, uh, a ‘pretty little archer’.” He averts his gaze as he says those words, but manages to make eye contact again once they’ve passed his lips. “But, Professor, I’m _clearly_ taller than you.”

On the inside, you’re laughing. On the outside, you look at him like he’s made a mistake. Schooling your expression down to neutrality (which, let’s be honest, isn’t something you struggle with), you put your hands on his waist and spin the both of you around so that he’s no longer against the wall. He stumbles, but ultimately keeps his footing. “Hold on,” you suggest casually. Hold on to where? You leave that for him to figure out. In one swift movement, you squat just enough to wrap an arm around the back of his thighs, you brace the other across his back, and you haul him up into your arms.

He squeaks and grips your shoulders tightly for a moment. “Oh,” he says quietly once he gets his bearings. He gazes down at your face like he watched you hang the stars, and hooks his legs behind you. Now he’s steady, you move the hand behind his back to his thigh, and it’s a little easier to support him. In a show of restraint that would impress the Saints themselves, you manage to resist the impulse to brush your hand against his ass on the way there. Really, the Church should erect a statue in your honour.

You raise an eyebrow at him. “Little,” you say plainly. “Pretty. _Little_. Archer.”

His hands are still on your shoulders, but they’re just resting there, like he’s not really sure he can do anything else with them. “W-Well, if you look at it from my perspective, I’m even taller now.”

You stare him dead in the eyes. “I could bench-press you.”

Something pokes at your waist, barely detectable through all the layers of fabric, but still. At least _something’s_ erect in your honour. You can’t help but laugh.

“Uh, sorry,” says Ashe, looking away and shifting a little uncomfortably.

If you could, you’d guide his face back to yours, but your hands are a little occupied. “Hey, Ashe. It’s okay. Look at me.” When he does, you make an effort to smile. “I’m _deeply_ flattered.”

“I… you’re welcome, I think? No, that doesn’t sound right.” He gives you a sheepish smile in return. “I’m not very good at this.”

You give his thighs what you hope is a reassuring squeeze. Touching your forehead to his, you say, “Don’t worry, it’s cute.” He closes his eyes and exhales through his nose. The hands on your shoulders relax, then he moves them so his arms wrap behind your neck instead. You want to stroke his back, run your hand up and down his spine, but they’re busy. Oh well. Ashe’s thighs are a perfectly respectable place for your hands to be, anyway. You move your thumbs lightly as you speak. “Besides, that’s not even true. You’re being _very_ good.”

He chokes on his own breath, then hides his crimson face in the crook of your neck.

Nuzzling your cheek against the top of his skull, you chuckle. “If I only had more hands, I’d be patting your head right now,” you tell him. “Alas. I’m cursed with only two. Imagine what I could do with more.”

He mumbles something that sure sounds like a complete sentence. It’s muffled entirely by the fabric of your top.

“You realise I didn’t catch a word of that, right?”

“Mmh,” he replies.

“Such a way with words.” You give his legs another squeeze before going on. “So, my pretty little archer,” you tease, and you can feel him softly laugh and shake his head against you, “are you feeling helpful now?”

He lifts his head just enough to clearly say the words, “Whatever you need.”

“Good boy,” you whisper in his ear just to provoke a reaction. You’re rewarded; he shoves his head back down against your neck. “I’m glad to hear it,” you go on, “because I need you to kiss me, and you’ll have to stop hiding to do that.”

He gasps and holds himself upright in your arms in a flash. His eyes are wide and his mouth slightly parted. “R-really?”

“I know it’s out of the blue, and you couldn’t possibly have guessed this was coming, but yes. I want you to kiss me, Ashe.”

“I can’t believe this is happening,” he breathes, and then his mouth is on yours.

It’s soft. It’s sweet. It’s different to any time you’ve been kissed before, and you really, really like it. He peppers endless feather-light kisses against your lips. You tilt your head to meet every last one of them, chasing his mouth as it moves. His hands slide from behind you to touch your face, to hold it like it’s something irreplaceable.

“Ashe,” you say softly.

When he looks at you, he does so with reverence. “Yes?”

“Think you can hold on by yourself for a moment? I’m going to sit down.”

“Of course,” is his answer. “Are you tired? You can, ah, put me down if that’s the case.”

You shake your head. “Not even remotely. I could jog the perimeter of the whole monastery while carrying you bridal style. I just want my hands free.”

“I… see,” he says, and he looks a little lost in thought, but he puts his arms around you and wraps his legs a little tighter regardless. You edge over to the nearest brick garden bed wall and plant yourself there, steadying yourself with a hand on the surface to ensure you don’t overbalance.

“Perfect,” you say, referring just as much to his flushed face as your hands’ newfound freedom. 

“I’m still having trouble believing this is real,” he confesses.

“Let me help convince you.” With one hand pressed against the small of his back and the other wound in his hair, you pull him flush against you and kiss him like you mean it.

“Mmph!” It’s not a noise of protest. His eyes flutter shut and he follows your lead. You hum happily against his mouth and feel him try to smile against your skin. Your hand explores his back, traces his spine, grazes his sides. Ashe’s hands move more subtly. More carefully. He brushes the pad of his thumb against your cheek and sighs into the litany of kisses. His other hand moves to the side of your neck, his touches butterfly-soft.

You tighten your grip on his hair, not enough to hurt, but enough to make him gasp. Seizing the opening, your tongue darts first against then past his lips. His tongue meets yours. His movements are more tentative, but definitely enthusiastic. If a little… unpracticed. But you find that doesn’t bother you. 

Your hand drifts lower and stops just before the curve of his hip. You pull away from the kiss, inching your fingers lower and wordlessly asking permission when he opens his eyes. With a gulp, he nods. When your hand cups his ass over his overcoat, he looks away and bites his lip.

“You’re doing well,” you assure him, letting that hand still for now.

He smiles shyly. “I’m glad you think so, hah…” he says in a shaking voice.

“Oh, Ashe.” You take your hand from his side and bring it to his face, gently stroking his lip with your thumb. “You don’t know how sweet you look when you bite your lip like that.”

He laughs a little, scratching the back of his neck. “I… uh, thank you?” He turns his eyes back on you, then just as quickly looks away. “Do you, uh…”

You drop the hand from his face and settle it on his waist, then take the hand you had on his behind and put it on his thigh. “Yes?” you prompt, sliding the hand up beneath the blue coat so you can touch him with one less layer in the way.

Taking a steadying breath, he looks you in the eye. “Do you like sweets much, Professor?”

For a moment you just blink at him. Then the both of you start laughing. You don’t know who initiates it, but your foreheads rest together as you giggle.

“As a matter of fact, I do,” you say through your (genuine) smile. Kissing his mouth, you say, “I like the feel of them between my lips.” You pull back, and he tries to follow you, but you hold a finger up against his lips. “I like looking at them.” You drag your eyes over the whole of his body, and he shudders, licking his lips. “They’re just so enticing. And,” you move the hand under the coat to the hem of his pants, “I like unwrapping them.”

He exhales haltingly. “…wait.”

You freeze. “Whatever you need,” you say. “Is everything alright, Ashe?”

He nods, but you don’t read permission into it. You’re not going to continue unless he explicitly tells you to. “I… it’s just… I’m not sure how, uh, far I want to go right now.”

“That’s perfectly fine,” you tell him. “I’m glad you spoke up.” You withdraw your hand and rest it on the side of his leg. “We don’t have to do anything further if you don’t want. Do you want to stop?”

“No,” he says without hesitation. “That’s the last thing I want, actually.”

“Music to my ears,” you say playfully, earning a smile from him.

“I want… I just… hm.” His brows are furrowed, and he absently plays with a strand of your hair. “I’d like to do more, but maybe not here.”

It’s a fair point, you think. You pat his leg. “Best hop up, then.”

He nods and clambers off you, then offers a hand to help you up. You take it gladly. “Why thank you, good sir knight,” you tease.

“It’s my pleasure, my lady,” he replies in kind.

You crook a finger, beckoning him closer. “Allow me to give you a token of my gratitude.”

Obligingly, he brings his face to yours, and you place one chaste peck on his lips.

“My lady,” he says as he draws back. “You’re too kind.”

“Only to the pretty ones,” you say with a shrug. You take a moment to enjoy his laugh, then go on. “So, shall we go to my room?”

“I…” He seems like he’s wrestling with the answer.

You try to make it easier. “There’ll be no pressure. I won’t expect anything in particular of you just because it’s my room. You’ve just as much right to say no there as anywhere else.”

Slowly, he nods. “A-alright. I think I’d like that.”

“So would I.” You reach for his hand and give it a reassuring squeeze, then release it once again to retrieve your sack of junk, still sitting where you dropped it.

“Are you sure you don’t want help with that?” he asks as you sling it over your shoulder.

You shake you head and lead him out of the greenhouse. “And here I thought I just proved my strength.”

Closing the door behind the two of you, he lets out a chuckle. “Even the strongest people should accept help from time to time.”

That makes you laugh in turn, and you reach up to pat his face. “That’s just about the most _you_ thing you could’ve said.” Letting your hand fall, you add, “but really. It’s nothing. Not even worth worrying about.”

You reach your door in silence, but there were more than a couple of times you thought that wouldn’t be the case. Ashe would draw in a breath as if to say something, but then he’d just exhale, shaking his head.

“So,” you begin as you pluck your key from the pocket of your loose pants, “I’ll let you in, but I have to dispose of this.” You jiggle the bag. “I’ll only be a couple of minutes.”

He frowns. “I could come with you?”

“You seem like you could use some time to think. Am I wrong?”

“Probably not,” he admits.

You pat him on the arm and swing open the door. “I won’t be long. Make yourself at home.” You spin on your heel and traipse into the darkness. Behind you, you hear your door clicking shut. As you stride through the grounds towards what has become an impromptu garbage disposal pile, your mind keeps circling back to one thought: Ashe is waiting in your bedroom. Your lemon-coloured loungewear top does little to protect against the bite of night air, and the matching shorts even less, but that single idea warms you from the inside.

When you open your door once again, you find Ashe sitting on your bed. He stands when you enter. “Professor.” He ducks his head in greeting.

In the candlelight — which you note means he’s lit them, which in turn means he wasn’t just paralyzed by nerves the whole time you were gone. Good — it’s easier to make out the light flush on his cheeks.

“Ashe, what a nice surprise,” you say as you close the door behind yourself and toss the empty sack into the corner to be forgotten until you next need it. You make no move to get closer to him. Instead, you jerk your chin, indicating he should come to you. “What brings you here at this hour?”

He approaches you and settles his hands on your waist, just above the curve of your hips. You place your hands on his chest as he speaks. “I just wanted to check in on my favourite professor. I heard she might have need of me.”

Grabbing onto his coat, you spin the two of you around so that he’s pressed up against the door. Looking up at him through your eyelashes, you put a thigh between his legs, lean your chest on his, and tell him, “you heard right.” You move to put your lips on his, and he meets you halfway. The kiss is slow and deep. Your tongue prods his lips and he lets you right in. You move unhurriedly, letting yourself sink into the moment as if you had nowhere you needed to be. And, well, you probably weren’t going to get to sleep tonight anyway, and you’ve nothing but training planned for tomorrow.

Ashe’s hands remain planted on your waist. He holds you tightly, tighter than he had when you started kissing. You move your hips against his and he hums contentedly. You laugh softly into his mouth and do it again, this time letting a hand drop to his hips, where you trade circles with your palm. He breathes a sigh and glides his tongue along yours, and you kind of forget all of your problems for a moment.

But something changes, you can feel it in the way he tenses. It’s only slight, but it’s there, and when he sighs this time it’s not out of pleasure.

“Ashe?” you prompt, stepping back.

“Is this… is this okay?” he asks, eyes boring into yours. “I was thinking while you were gone. And I thought I could ignore it, but I can’t. Should we be doing this with everything that’s going on? The whole continent’s been torn apart, and every day it just gets worse.” His fists clench, and narrowing his eyes, he looks away from you. “People are dying. People we know. People we _don’t_. Kids in little villages are losing their parents, with nowhere to turn.”

“Oh, _Ashe_,” you say, putting a comforting hand on his arm. He looks at you again through red-rimmed eyes.

“I wish I could do more, and I know I’m just one person and I don’t have the power to fix everything, but… is it alright to do _this_, knowing all that’s happening?”

You think about how to respond for a moment. “Come sit,” you say, striding towards the bed and plopping yourself on it cross-legged. He hesitates but ultimately joins you, sitting on the edge with his feet planted on the ground. “I thought it might be easier to talk if we were comfortable. And if I wasn’t crowding you into the door.”

He nods. You go on.

“I understand how you feel. It’s terrible. All the people hurt by this war, none of them deserve it. But we’re working to end it, Ashe. _You’re_ working to end it. You shouldn’t beat yourself up over your contributions. One person can only do so much. You’re helping everyone out there every day you work with us, okay?” He’s been nodding as you speak, and his eyes are lowered in thought, so even if you’re not getting through to him, he’s listening. You want to reach out and touch his hand, but you resist. “It doesn’t disrespect all of the suffering going on to let yourself be a little happier, but it might alleviate some of yours.”

That’s when he meets your eyes again. The tension in his shoulders has loosened a little, you notice, and he shows you the smallest of smiles. It’s not like staring into the sun, not like his usual smiles, but it’s just the glimmer of acceptance your heart needed to send a wave of relief crashing through you like the breaking of a dam.

“I guess that makes sense,” he admits.

You smile back at him. You know that you don’t have a smile like Ashe — Goddess, no one does — but you offer it up for him anyway. He seems to like it well enough. His own expression softens.

“If you want to back out after thinking about all of that, I understand. There’s no pressure,” you remind him.

“I appreciate it, Byleth. But I’d rather stay here… if that’s alright with you. I might need a couple of minutes though.”

“Take all the time you need.” Your heart felt warm and fluttery when he used your real name. You decide to keep that to yourself.

Ashe worries at his bottom lip, deep in thought. “There was something else I was wondering.”

“What is it?”

He looks at you with that soft pink dusting his freckled cheeks again. “What, ah… what exactly is this?”

“Oh,” you say, realising you perhaps should’ve sorted this out earlier. “That’s a good question.”

“Mmh.” He worries at a little tear in his coat. “I hope I haven’t gotten the wrong idea. You can be a tricky one to read, do you know that?”

You nod while your mind glosses over all the similar testimonials you’ve been on the receiving end of over the years. “So I’ve been told.” You’re quiet for a moment more as mentally you put your words in order. “I don’t mean to ask any great vows or commitments of you. We’re adults, we like each other well enough, and we could both die on the battlefield at any time. We both have more than enough responsibilities on our shoulders. I think we deserve something good without consequences, don’t you?”

Slowly, he nods. His blank mask is clearly taking some effort to keep there. So you don’t pry. “I see,” he says, finding his voice. “I… think I can be okay with that.”

“Just okay?” you tease.

When he meets your eye, he breaks into a smile. “Alright, more than okay,” he says with a laugh. He licks his lips, then looks down at yours. One of his hands reaches to cup your face. “May I?”

“Only because you asked so nicely,” you say, and gentle as anything he presses his mouth to yours. You let him set the pace for a while. He keeps it slow. Only after he’s showered you with what feels like a thousand tiny pecks do you feel his tongue poke at your lips. You let them fall open for him.

Shuffling just a little bit closer, you try to figure out where to put your hands. Not that you’re strapped for ideas — far from it — but he’s still got his feet on the floor and it puts you on an awkward angle. You’re about to say something when he pulls away.

“Ah, one moment,” he says apologetically. He leans down to untie his boots. Ah. Okay. That’s why his feet weren’t on the bed. You glance down at your own shoe-clad feet. It’s hard for you to care about it. You’ve slept in worse places than a bed that’s had shoes on it. But still, you can’t say you begrudge his politeness.

“Not a bad plan,” you tell him, shucking off your own footwear. Each shoe hits the floor with an unceremonious thud.

The very moment he swings his no-longer-boot-clad feet onto the bed, you clamber into his lap. He needs a fraction of a moment to process the sudden change but by the time you hook your arms around the back of his neck, he’s looking up at you with a fondness in his eyes that could melt the coldest snows of Faerghus.

“Better,” you say.

“Much better,” he agrees. 

Ashe tilts his head up to kiss you again but you deflect, pecking just to the side of the corner of his mouth instead. While something tells you you could happily keep on kissing him forever, you want so much more. You trail a line of kisses to his jaw, drawing out a sigh. His hands stroke your back, up and down, and in lazy circles.

Unclasping your hands from behind him, you move your arms out of your own way and shift a little. With much better access, you’re free to kiss his neck. You start gently, just barely pressing your lips to the skin below his ear, feeling his pulse against you before poking your tongue out to break contact with the tiniest of licks.

The shaky breath he lets out is like a Goddess-touched choir.

You hum tunelessly against his skin when you dive in for more. His hands find their way to your waist where they hold you firmly. You touch a couple of fingers to his pulse point on the other side of his throat and revel in feeling his heart beat as you work. You find a good spot — every spot on him is a good spot, you think through the clouds — and latch onto his throat, gently sucking.

He groans. His pulse quickens. The fingers around your waist grip harder and in response, you moan and move your hips against his. Not insistently, nor with any great rush, but it does seem to get the point across. He holds on tightly, and the pressure is pleasant, but it’s not enough.

“You’re allowed to move your hands,” you tell him, tilting your head up just enough that a couple of flyaway strands of silver hair behind his ear dance in the wind of your breath. “There’s more to touch than just my sides.”

“Oh! I… okay,” he answers quite eloquently indeed. His hands glide a little lower. One stills on your hip while the other drags up your thigh hesitantly. It stops, and there’s a moment when he does absolutely nothing. Then he exhales and lets his head drop to your shoulder. “Sorry, I… I’m a little nervous, truth be told, and I don’t want to make any missteps.”

You card one hand through his hair — it’s so _pretty_, you idly think — and rest the other on his back. “You haven’t so far,” you assure him.

“Well, I suppose that’s comforting.” He looks up at you with a small smile. And then he’s looking away, worrying at his lip again.

Your brows knit together. “Ashe, if you’re not sure, we don’t have to keep—”

“No, it isn’t that!” he states with more confidence than you think you’ve seen from him all night. “I know how it must seem, but I swear, it’s not. It’s just…” His eyes wander as he searches for the right words. What he comes up with is: “ugh.”

Oh. “You haven’t done this before,” you think aloud.

Green eyes gaze shyly up at you through long silver lashes. “I mean… that’s, ah, not specifically what worries me, but I guess the, uh, lack of experience isn’t helping me any.” He flushes a little as he caps that off with a timid laugh. “The last few years have been… I haven’t really had the chance. Not that…” He frowns, then shakes his head, evidently abandoning that train of thought. “W-what about you, Professor? Ah, only if it’s alright for me to ask, of course! Please, don’t feel obligated to answer.”

“I have,” you say as casually as you can manage, throwing in a shrug of your shoulders because you want him to know that prior experience is really not a big deal to you. “Not with anyone I cared about, though. That part’s a first.”

“O-oh! I, um, you sure do know how to make a man feel special, Professor,” he says, clearly aiming for lighthearted and a little cheeky, but it seems he’s not as good a marksman with words as with arrows because it veers just left of the target and lands with a twang in ‘genuinely sweet’.

Well, if he’s wide of this particular bullseye, you guess you’ll have to hit it for him. Lend him some of your Professor’s expertise. “I know how to make a person feel a lot of things,” you quip.

“Is that so?” he asks, and he’s looking at you with that fondness that chases away the cold and beckons flowers to bloom again.

You smile, catlike, as you touch your fingers to the topmost clasp of his coat. “If you’ve no objections,” you intone, looking at him through half-lidded eyes, “then allow me to demonstrate.”

He blinks. “Oh! Um, no— I mean yes! No objections,” he rushes out as he begins to fumble with his coat’s belt. Laughing, you make short work of the fastenings, and help him shrug out of it. Neither of you bother getting the coat out from underneath him. That would involve you getting out of his lap, and for now you’re having a fabulous time indeed there, thank you very much.

Lightly, you trace a finger up his arm. He shivers. “I’m sorry, I know I’m not the most impressive—” he starts quietly.

But, well, you’re having none of it. “Stop that,” you say. You press a kiss to his bicep and he makes a confused sound that nearly makes you laugh. “You’ve nothing to apologise for.” Your eyes flick up before you kiss his arm again, and you catch a little smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “That’s more like it.” 

“I-if you say so,” Ashe breathes. He tangles a hand loosely in your hair as you pull back to sit face to face with him again. When he starts combing his fingers through it ever so gently, you smile.

“As it happens, I do,” you say. You trace a finger down the side of neck to his top’s collar, then follow the line of the fabric. “This too?”

Ashe just nods in response, and you intend to unfasten it yourself, but he sees to it in such a rush that you get the impression he doesn’t want you to. Nerves? Wants to get it over with? You’re not sure.

Opened as far as it will go, Ashe pulls the top over his head and casts it off behind himself. At first you’re leaning back to give him room to discard the garment, but then you’re leaning back to drink in the view.

You’re struck by how slender he is. You feel the urge to run your fingertips down both sides of his ribs, as proof that yep, that’s him, he’s that elegantly shaped and he’s real.

His freckles, to your delight, aren’t limited to his face. You want to find patterns in them, secret constellations that only you can name.

It’s when Ashe coughs and grips one arm with the other hand that you realise you’ve been staring. Shamelessly.

“You’re beautiful, Ashe,” you tell him honestly, tearing your eyes from his chest to look at his face, and you remember that, _shit_, that’s beautiful too.

His brows pull together slightly. “Professor,” he says, cautious, “I’m no one special. I’m… just me?”

Shifting forward, you shake your head. As you move closer he releases his hold on his arm and wraps his arms back around your waist. “Who told you you’re ‘no one special’?” You ask, hand on his cheek. “Honestly, they need to be taught a lesson. I’ll kick their behinds for you. That’s what friends are for.”

Though he casts his eyes down, he does let out a chuckle at that, then turns his head to kiss your palm. “You’re very kind, and I l— like that about you, but all of this praise isn’t necessary. Really. We can’t all be naturally amazing, not like… You don’t have to act as if I’m something I’m not. I’m just happy to be here.”

_Not like who?_ you elect not to ask. You sit up a little straighter and fold your arms over your chest. “You think I’m trying to flatter you, don’t you?”

“I-I wouldn’t put it like— like that!” he says quickly. But it’s not a no.

You breathe deeply, pursing your lips in thought. At that, he looks a little anxious.

“I’m sorry, I’m not saying the right things at—”

“You didn’t say the wrong thing,” you cut in. “I’m thinking.”

“…oh,” he replies.

“So, listen,” you begin, and he shows every sign of doing just as you ask. Goddess, his eyes are bright. “I know I asked for you to help me, but increasingly I find myself thinking that I’d rather help you. You seem to have a lot on your mind. Maybe I can help you forget some of that self-doubt for a while.”

“Byleth, you don’t need to—”

You put a finger to his lips for the second time this evening. “I want to. Let me make you feel good, Ashe.” With a sense of victory, you note the movement if his Adam’s apple as he swallows. “All I ask is that when I say something honest — like that you’re beautiful — that you at least try to believe me. I’m not one for flattery, and I don’t lie to my friends.”

“I didn’t mean to imply that,” he says softly, ducking his head.

Fingers lightly under his jaw, you lift his face back to level with yours. “I know. What do you say? Try not to second-guess yourself, just for tonight?”

He nods, just slightly. “I can’t promise you I’ll be any good at it, but I’ll try.”

You lean in close to his ear. “Good boy,” you whisper before taking the bottom of his earlobe into your mouth.

The hands at your waist tighten as he gasps. You roll the delicate skin lightly in your teeth, earning more little gasps and halted breaths, while you skirt a hand up the side of his ribs. His muscles tense at the touches. As you wind your other hand back through his hair, you migrate to his neck and mark him in earnest.

“H— hahh,” he breathes, and he tries to lower his head, but you pull on his hair to expose more of his neck. He grasps at the back of your top, holding you fast.

“That’s what I like to hear,” you murmur as you pull back to admire your handiwork. You hum happily at the little wine-coloured bloom, reminding you of some of the flowers Ashe so likes to attend to. “Red’s a nice colour on you.”

He laughs that little nervous laugh that you’ve heard so much tonight, that you’re starting to think you could hear forever and never get tired of. “A-all the more reason to, ah, keep going, then? Please?” He falters, but he’s trying, and when you glance at that shy smile of his a grin comes to your own face unbidden.

You think this really is better with friends.

“Oh, I do like the sound of that ‘please’.” You run a finger along the blossoming bruise, experimentally pushing with a little more force on the tender spot. You won’t know if he likes it until you try. Judging by the way his breath hitches and the twitch of his fingers, you’re going to go ahead and say that yes, he does. Good to know, you think, and you file that lovely little nugget of information away for later as you move lower to give that first mark a companion. 

You hadn’t expected to get so much out of the sound of Ashe breathing, but as each breath gets heavier and he whispers your name into your hair, you find yourself unsure of if you’ve ever heard anything better. You continue the slow and winding trek down, cataloging each hitch in his breath, each little twitch against you, the pressure where your hips meet. Once you’re low enough to nip gently at his collarbone, you pull back.

“Ashe,” you say, shuffling backwards out of his lap and holding out a hand, which he takes seemingly automatically.

“Yes?” His voice is husky.

“Lay down for me.” You pull him towards the top end of your bed so he can rest his head on the pillows. Before he complies, however, he ducks in close to cup your cheek and place a chaste kiss on your lips. His hand trails away from your face as he lays down, and you find yourself smiling as you sit astride him.

You’ve found yourself smiling a lot tonight, you realise. When have you ever smiled this much? In your whole life? It’s strange, and maybe it’ll unsettle you later, but for now it’s far from unwelcome.

He chuckles, bringing you back to the moment. “You know,” he says, “I think a kiss is the most harmless thing I’ve ever stolen.”

You huff a surprised laugh through your nose, and look down at him with raised eyebrows. “Okay, very funny,” you say, but it’s not without warmth. He clasps his hands on his chest, and no, that won’t do, so you take his wrists and place his hands high on your sides as you swoop in to catch his mouth in another kiss.

“You can touch me, you know,” you say low and soft against his cheek.

His thumbs skim along the side of your breasts. “I don’t want to overstep,” he says as he stills, looking up at you as if for reassurance.

You smooth a couple of stray hairs from his face. With your other hand clasped over one of his, you guide it to your breast and lightly squeeze. “You won’t.”

“Um! Okay!” he says with a cracking voice. You try to bite down a laugh, but your eyes meet and you both chuckle softly. His cheeks are that lovely shade of pink again as you release his hand. 

Still more cautiously than necessary, his thumbs graze over your nipples, which pebble against the cotton of your shirt. Your eyes slip shut and you let out little contented puffs. Thankfully, the message of ‘yes, do that’ isn’t intercepted by doubt or nerves. He rolls your nipple between his thumb and index finger, and you really don’t mean to let out that soft, shaky moan, but there it is anyway.

“Wow,” he breathes, and you’re not sure he meant to let that out either.

Your hand goes to his forehead as he continues his ministrations. Those same rogue locks are back, and you brush them from his face again. For a moment, you keep combing your fingers through the front of his hair, an almost unconscious action as your concentration is taken up mostly by Ashe’s exploring fingers. Bringing your finger to his face again, you absently trace lines between his freckles.

The friction of the fabric moving against your sensitive nipples is _nice_, but you want more. And as he takes one hand away you’ve half a mind to grab it and plant it right back where it was. That is, until he delicately takes hold of the hand you have on his face, bring it to his lips and kisses your knuckles.

“Holy shit,” you breathe. You’re treated to melodious laughter against your fingers.

He rotates your hand so that he can kiss each one of your fingers. “Such language from my lady,” he intones, giving your nipple a tweak just hard enough to make you gasp.

You gaze down at him, happy and pliant beneath you, an artwork of freckles on moonlight, unsure but finding his confidence fast, and it’s like you’re seeing him anew.

In one swift movement, you grab both of his wrists, pin them either side of his head and loom closely over him. He lets out a cry of surprise, but doesn’t make any attempt to free himself. This close, as he stares up at you with eyes full of questions and anticipation, you can really appreciate the way his hair fans out on the pillow like a silver halo. Whyever would Ignatz want to paint the Goddess so much when there’s such beauty to be found in a flesh and blood person?

“I’d be very impressed if you found a way to overstep,” you say to Ashe as you grind your hips against his, “considering how much I want to ride you until you forget your own name.”

He chokes on air. His wrists tug at the restraint of your grasp, so you release them, and he covers his face with his hands. Too late to stop you from seeing the luminescent shade of crimson he’s turned, though.

“I envy your confidence, you know that?” His complaints are a little muffled by his palms. “To just… _say _things like that.”

You can’t help but feel a bit smug, and you don’t try to fight off the smirk that spreads to your face. Questioningly, you place a hand on one of his. “Can’t hear your lovely voice very well through these,” you say gently, and he lets you tug it away, but keeps his other hand right where it is.

“Ugh,” he says, shutting the eye his hand no longer shields. He’s still smiling, though.

You pull his hand to your own lips and copy his sweet gesture from before. “I stand by what I said before,” you say between dusting kisses to his hand, “red looks very good on you.”

“I’ll have to… have to take your word for it,” he fumbles.

“Do that,” you say, stroking his cheek with the back of your hand. It’s burning to the touch. “If only I had a hand mirror, I could make you see how pretty you are right now. But I don’t, and I think I’d fight anyone who suggested I leave to get one.”

“I’d— I’d be right there to fight alongside you.” He brings his hand from his face to hold over his heart.

“Of course,” you say. “You’re very good like that.”

You don’t miss the glimmer in his eye as fading blush deepens just a shade. He doesn’t seem to miss the way the corner of your mouth ticks up in response.

“I—”

You cut him off. “You like it when I tell you how _good_ you are, don’t you?”

“N-no, it’s not that, I just…” he tries, but you know he knows you don’t believe it.

“Be honest,” you tell him, leaning down close enough that your breath tickles his sternum. But you don’t make contact. You just hover there, awaiting an answer.

“I… I do. Ah, very much so,” he admits.

You place a kiss right in the centre of his chest. “Good boy,” you say through a smirk, laying a trail of kisses off to the side.

“I saw that one comi— ah!” He cuts himself off when you take his nipple into your mouth, rolling it in your lips as your fingers find the other one.

“Of course you did,” you say as casually as you can, like you’re sitting at the pond having a chat and not trying to wring as many twitches and gasps out of his body as you can. He whines when you pause to blow a puff of air on his wet skin. “You’ve always been clever.” You flick his nipple again with your tongue, playing with the other all the while. “And attentive.” Your eyes go to his face as you add, “and eager.”

He’s biting his lip again. While that’s never going to get old, you can’t help but think you’d like it better if his mouth was otherwise occupied. “I hope you’re not doing that to stay quiet,” you say, dragging a thumb across his lips. At the same time, you pinch his nipple _just so slightly_ harder, and grind your hips together. The sound that he makes is somewhere between a whine and a long, ragged exhale.

“It’s di— difficult,” he breathes. “I’m, ah, a little shy.” He laughs quietly.

You know he is. You wonder if haven’t been considerate enough of that. “Should I slow down? Take it down a notch, be less pushy?”

“Don’t, uh…” and he trails off, worrying at his lip again.

While there are quite a few things you’d like to put in his mouth, words are not among them. “Yes?”

He takes in a shaky breath, and before he even speaks, he’s going bright red again. “Don’t hold back on my account.”

_Oh_. Okay. Yeah. You can go along with that. “Oh my, Ashe,” you say, delighting in the way his breath stutters as you trace a finger around the perimeter of his areola. You start to swivel your hips again, languidly, deliberately against his. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were hinting at me to ravish you. But a sweet thing like you wouldn’t be asking for that, would they?”

Ashe ducks his head. He’s looking up at you through his eyelashes when he says, “do what you want with me.”

Fighting off the urge to grin as heat bubbles up inside you, you try to look serious as you move your hips with more force. “Sorry, I didn’t quite catch that,” you tease.

You feel him twitch where you’re sitting on him. He lifts his chin to meet your eyes a tad more boldly. “Do what you want with me, _please,_” he says. Not for the first time tonight, you’re so, so glad you decided to check out the greenhouse.

You lean in to whisper in his ear. “There it is,” you say, nipping at the lobe. “So polite. How could I refuse?” You lick a stripe up his neck and he _shudders_, then you pull back to have another proper look at him. Your eyes drag up and down his prone form. His hands find their way to your thighs, but don’t really do anything once they’re there. A testament to nerves or inexperience? Probably both, you think.

“What _do_ I want do you with you?” You run your hands along his sides, feeling along his ribs, exploring. “To be honest, there’s so many things I want to do that we couldn’t possibly get to them all. But that said, I think I know how to narrow it down.”

“Oh? How so?”

“I seem to recall a couple of things. One,” you tap one finger against his side, “you said you weren’t sure how much you wanted to do, so perhaps I shouldn’t… hmm, how did I put it again? Do you remember?”

He gets the hint immediately, and there’s a tremor in his voice. “Uh, r-ride me until I forget my own name?”

“Oh, right, _that_ was it,” you say with a wink. Two…” You tap another finger. “I told you I wanted to make you feel good, and I plan to keep that promise.”

“I’m feeling pretty good right now, actually.”

You slide your hips backwards enough that your hand has the room to graze over his length through his pants. “Want to feel even better?”

At the contact, he gasps. “Yes,” he breathes, and he nods so enthusiastically you have to bite back a laugh. You go to undo the laces, and his hands leave your thighs to help you. You catch him by the wrists. “Patience,” you chide. You bring his hands to settle above your hips, with his thumbs and index fingers poking up under your shirt’s hem. As you get back to working on the laces, he moves a hand upward, softly feeling your bare skin. You exhale. “Good, Ashe,” you whisper. “More of that.” You don’t know what’s better, his fingers growing bolder against your skin or the shy smile he gives you for the praise.

You finish with the laces and hook your fingers under his waistband. He stops breathing for just a moment. “On second thought,” you say, “why don’t we even things out a little?” Before he can respond, you grasp your top by the hem and pull it over your head, flinging it off to the floor somewhere to be dealt with later.

He gasps. His hands still, and you’ve never seen his pupils so dilated. “Something the matter, Ashe?” you tease, leaning towards him and placing your hands on his shoulders in a such a way that your biceps push your breasts together.

“N-n-n-n-o! N-nothing’s the matter!” he says, voice cracking.

You affect a pout. “Then why’d you stop moving?”

“Oh!” His hands twitch. Then, timidly, they snake upwards. “I, uh, because…” he shakes his head and laughs. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’m so nervous, I can’t imagine it’s very…”

Smiling warmly, you pat his hair. “There’s no need to be nervous, and definitely no need to be sorry.”

“Ah, sor— I mean, okay,” he says softly. He swallows, and then, _finally_, brings his hands to your breasts. You hum as he kneads the soft flesh, and exhale when he swishes over your nipples. While you’re still combing one hand through his hair, you brace the other against the bed to better steady yourself. Before you let your eyes slip closed, you drink in the look of concentration on his face.

“Relax,” you breathe, cupping his cheek. “You’re doing fine.”

His reply is just as quiet. “I’ll try.”

Once you close your eyes, you decide to take your own advice and just relax into the sensations. Ashe’s touch is anything but expert, but the way you see it, that’s so far from a problem that it’s not even relevant. The feeling of hands that aren’t your own is welcome, drawing shivers and sighs and quiet moans from you in turn. That’s to say nothing of the reactions you draw from him. Running your hands up his chest staggers his breath. Pressing your fingers to the bruise you left in the hollow of his neck makes him shudder. He nuzzles into your hand when you stroke his cheek, and you don’t think he even knows he’s doing it.

And, perhaps most importantly of all, he fights to hide his groan when you grind your hips together harder. What emerges isn’t much different to a squeak. He stops moving, and you can _hear_ him swallow, so you open your eyes. You find him looking anywhere but you. His eyes are wide, and they dart around as if searching for somewhere to hide, but _Goddess_, hiding is the last thing you want him to do.

“Ashe,” you say, lifting his chin to meet your gaze.

He smiles sheepishly. “I know you said I don’t need to be sorry, but…”

“Sorry for what?” you ask. “That noise? I _want_ to hear you, Ashe.”

He nods, but says nothing, and it’s pretty clear he doesn’t know how to respond.

“I can make it easier to let the sounds out,” you tell him. He watches you with eyes full of questions as you shift yourself off him. Sitting by his side, you hook a finger under his waistband. You look at him for confirmation. He nods.

“Hips up,” you urge, and he complies. You peel his pants from his legs and toss them away. Faintly, you wonder if you should perhaps put them aside with a little more care, but then you recall him throwing his own shirt to the floor. Not to mention his coat still bundled up on the bed. The two of you have better things to worry about than rumpled clothes, you decide.

In nothing but his smallclothes (which do nothing to hide his arousal), he lies there, fingers fiddling with the sheets below him, teeth worrying at his lip, eyes glued to a particularly interesting spot of wall.

“Still okay?” you ask, shuffling closer again and touching a hand to his shoulder.

He swallows and forces himself to look at you. “Ye— yes. You don’t need to keep asking. Really.”

At that, you just blink. “Ashe,” you say, “if you look like you might not be alright, then yes, I do.”

He purses his lips, but doesn’t argue. “Honestly, I’m… I’m just trying not to apologise,” he admits. “I know I don’t cut the most intimidating figure. And compared to anyone else here…”

“Ashe,” you say. “Do you see anyone else here?”

“Ah, I meant here as in the monastery, not this room.”

“I know.” You touch your hand to his shin and move it lightly, slowly up and down. “Out of everyone here-as-in-the-monastery, who is here-as-in-my-room?”

“M-me,” he concedes. “But I thought I was just… lucky?”

You frown and draw back a shade, and it’s enough to spark a panic in his eyes. The moment you notice that, you reach for his hand and give it a squeeze.

“I’m sorry, that was rude—”

You shush him and he blinks.

“You thought I approached you for this because you just happened to be there?”

He swallows and nods, and you wonder if he doesn’t trust his voice, or if he’s just taking being shushed very seriously. Either way, he’s not voicing self doubt, so that must be a good thing, right?

You crawl up the bed and sit next to his chest, your legs off to one side. Your hands go to the mattress either side of his head as you lean in close, letting your hair fall around his face like a curtain of gauzy green.

Your voice is deeper than intended when you speak. “I took one look at you in the moonlight and couldn’t think about anything else.”

The way his pupils dilate shoots warmth through your core. “Oh,” he breathes.

“Funny,” you say, “‘_oh_’ is pretty close to what I thought.”

“I… see.”

You wet your lips. “No, I’m not sure that you do.” And you kiss him. You kiss him slow and gentle. He hums against your lips, and the air from his nose comes out in a stutter when you drop low enough that your chests are touching. One of his hands rests on your neck, and the other finds its way to your back, skimming along scars and muscle definition alike.

You take his lip into your teeth at the same time you press the pads of two fingers to one of the marks you’d gifted him earlier.

“A-ah!” His back arches, pressing him harder against you.

You push up just far enough to appreciate the look on his face, and can’t resist the urge to brush his parted lips with your thumb. “You’re beautiful, and that’s the truth.”

“Byleth,” he murmurs as you begin to kiss your way down his chest.

“I wish,” you say between kisses, “that all those years ago, I’d entered you in the White Heron Cup. You—” _kiss_ “have the body—” _kiss_ “of a dancer.”

The hand he’d had on your neck is grasping at the sheets again, but his other hand traces the lines of your shoulder blades. His breathing is fluttery, and when you flick your eyes towards his you find he’s watching you intently.

You go right back to what you were doing. “No one in their right mind would complain, seeing you like this.” You run your fingers along his ribs, following the smooth lines of his figure until you get to his waist, which you clasp your hands around. “You’re so elegant,” you say as you quietly marvel at the way his stomach muscles tense as your breath blows across his skin. “Delicate.” You place a kiss just above his navel, and those muscles jump even more. He suppresses a moan, but not well enough that you don’t notice.

You hover just below his navel, your hands still holding fast to his waist. Every breath you release ruffles the barely visible trail of silver hair that slinks down and disappears underneath the last scrap of fabric on him.

“Like something out of a fairy tale.” Your voice is just above a whisper, but his shaky exhale says he heard you all the same. You kiss just to the side of that hair trail, and his resultant gasp is like a religious experience. His abdomen muscles flutter, and you want to make that happen again, but you have work to do.

Your fingers skim over his undergarments, and for just a teasing moment, you let them linger there. But then they continue on to his thighs. He lets out a puff of air that you can really only interpret as impatient.

“It’s hard to believe you wanted to apologise for these,” you murmur. When you kiss a long-healed scar on the front of his leg, he cups a hand to your face and gently, gently tilts your head to face him.

“Byleth,” he says. “Please.”

It dawns on you, as you obligingly reach back up for that last piece of clothing hiding him from you, that he could probably convince you to crush mountains into dust just by saying please.

“Is this what you want, Ashe?” you ask, both of you knowing the answer damn well as you tug on the fabric.

“Yes, yes, please, Byleth, I want…” he stammers. As you ease his smallclothes down he shifts his hips up without you even asking.

“Well, I think such good manners deserve a reward, don’t you?”

“Goddess, Byleth,” Ashe breathes as you drag the garment down his legs and finally cast it away, forgotten as it deserves.

Before doing anything else, before looking or touching or _anything_, you move back up and place a kiss on his forehead, smoothing his hair out as you do. “You’re doing so well, Ashe,” you say softly.

“Th-that’s probably thanks to you.” He looks up at you through his eyelashes. “But, ah, could you… please…”

“Give yourself some credit,” you tell him as you draw back. You hope giving him that extra moment assuaged his nerves somewhat. You sit up and look at all of him.

The first thing you think is that his dick blushes just like his face. When you next see him blush in an innocent context, how are you going to unsee this?

You decide that that doesn’t matter at all, actually.

“See? Beautiful,” you say matter-of-factly. You drag a finger along his Adonis belt and embrace the fire that crackles in your gut when his dick twitches against his stomach.

“Don’t ask if it’s okay,” he says in a rush, clumsily propping himself up on his elbows and looking you in the eye with an intensity you don’t think you’ve seen before. “Don’t ask if it’s okay when you, ah,” he reddens and breaks eye contact. “When you get there, just… please.”

You remove your finger and place it on his thigh. His eyes widen — he looks like he might self combust. “Well, how could I refuse? Make some room for me?” You tap on his thigh before lightly pushing. He gets the message, spreading his legs just far enough for you to kneel between them. He seems less likely to burst into flames.

You decide to fix that. “Good boy.” You lean down, as tantalisingly closely as you can, then put your mouth on his inner thigh.

“By-lethhh,” he whines.

Satisfied, you hum. “Keep singing for me, beautiful,” you instruct before latching back onto the tender skin and sucking.

“Hah— haaaah,” he pants.

“Mm, just like that,” you croon. “Being so good.”

You glance up, and he’s staring down at you, begging with his eyes. The way his tensed abdomen rises and falls with his short, shallow breaths is nothing short of hypnotising, and you almost forget yourself as you watch in wonder.

Almost.

Maintaining eye contact, you resume marking his thigh. His eyes flutter — you can see him straining to keep watching you.

“Byleth, pl—”

You bite down.

His head falls back and he moans, long and low, wavering deliciously. Etching the scene into your memory, you kiss that same spot gently before pulling back.

“Lay back, Ashe,” you instruct, putting a hand on his quivering stomach.

He lowers himself a little, but stubbornly keeps himself upright enough to hold your gaze. “Please…” he starts.

“I will this time,” you assure him, pushing gently. “Lay back, relax, and let go. Do you think you can do that for me, Ashe?”

His breath leaves him in a shaky sigh as he obeys. “Yes, Professor,” he whispers sweetly. Sweetly! In this situation!

“You really are a treasure,” you marvel. Before he can respond, you press a kiss to his leaking tip.

He whines, fingers digging into the sheets, hips rising without his say-so.

“Good, that’s that I want.” You take his length into your hand, swirling your thumb around the tip and spreading the fluid around. He shudders and releases an ‘ahh’ that’s punctured by the halting pattern of his breathing.

Languidly, you begin to stoke. You keep your grip firm and try to take in that feeling of velvet skin sliding over twitching, hard muscle. There is a _lot_ to take in, though. You’re pulling a stream of little noises from him, quiet but melodious like birdsong in the morning.

Your free hand slips under his knee and you nudge his legs up. “Scoot them up a little bit for me, darling,” you encourage, and he complies without an ounce of resistance. “That’s it, good boy, there we go. And just a little wider? Oh, perfect, you’re so good.” He throws an arm over his eyes, and you watch his fist clench and unclench on air.

“Please, Pro— By— Professor,” he babbles, panting and raspy. You slow the hand on his cock to a standstill, and grip his thigh with your other hand. Watching for his reaction with bated breath, you dig your thumb into the spot you’d bitten earlier.

He keens.

The leg you aren’t holding up slides back flat to the bed. You feel the other slacken in your hand. While dragging your thumb in slow, small circles that wring nonsense syllables out of Ashe, you wet your lips and take him into your mouth.

“Ohhh,” he sighs, drawn out and low, breath cutting out and stuttering the whole time.

You bob your head up and down. He moans, then the sound morphs into a whimper. With every swish of your tongue, every drag of your lips, he lets out more sounds, desperate wordless prayers at your altar, and you are nothing if not a benevolent Goddess. You drag the hand that’s not holding his thigh to his balls, and you swear, he nearly chokes. Humming, you cup them, then lightly begin to move your fingers. Here, at least, you’ll be gentle. Elsewhere? Well.

Experimentally, you dig your fingernails into his thigh.

He arches his back and moans. “Yes, Byleth, _yes_, please _please_,” he hisses.

_Ask and ye shall receive,_ you think, and you tighten your grip, kneading harshly at the well-muscled flesh as you move your head faster.

His moans are louder and ragged, and as he bucks his hips you have to take care to pull your head back far enough that you don’t gag. As far gone as he is, you’re near certain, he’d fall right back into worry and doubt should you start choking between his legs.

A stream of yesses, pleases, Byleths and Professors runs freely from his lips, and it’s not too long before thank-yous enter the mix as well. It’s filthy and endearing in equal measure. You want to tell him how good he is, but you want even more to keep your mouth on him, so you settle for humming.

Then, seemingly all at once, he falls silent, and all that comes from him is desperate, ragged breathing. His movements become erratic, and he’s tense, _so_ tense.

“By— Byleth— Byleth, I…” And that’s all the warning you get before he jerks, spilling into your mouth with a whimper.

It’s far from your favourite taste, you’ll admit that, but you swallow it because it hands down beats cleaning up. As he lies boneless and panting, you lick up stray smears from his stomach. His muscles tense under your tongue, but he seems too out of it to react much more than that. That is, until you lick the last bit of spend from the head of his cock.

“Ah—!” he winces, his head shooting up. “N-no,” he says. “T-too… too…”

“Understood. I’ll stop,” you promise. For a while, you just watch him catching his breath, floating back down from the clouds. Your eyes dance over him. It’s the little details that draw you in, the things you’d never be privy to in another situation, the things you never thought you’d notice. You watch the way his skin moves over his ribcage with each breath, and though you want to run your hands across his chest again you think he just needs some time to recover.

He drags a hand across his face and sighs, then blinks up at you, bleary, weary, content.

“That was,” he breathes, and evidently he runs out of words, because he just laughs softly.

Yet again you find yourself smiling as you admire the way the lights in his eyes dance in the faint candle light. Oh, the candles. Carefully, you crawl over him, then make your way over to the desk. He makes a confused sound of protest behind you, and you glance over your shoulder when you hear shuffling. He’s sitting up.

“You can lie back down,” you tell him, picking up a candle and showing him. “I’m just taking care of these. Unless you don’t want to stay…?”

“Oh! I’d like that very much, actually,” he says, averting his eyes and rubbing the back of his neck.

Turning away again, you blow the first candle out. “Get under the covers. I’ll join you soon.”

There’s a rustling sound behind you as you take care of the other candles and plunge the room into near total darkness. The barest bit of moonlight leaks through your curtain, but with such little time for your eyes to become accustomed to the dark you might as well have no windows at all. Blindly, you pad back to bed. He holds the blankets up for you and you slide in beside him. He wastes no time taking you into his arms.

“Th-thank you,” he stammers, his hand gentle on your face.

“The pleasure was all mine,” you tell him.

Despite his clear exhaustion, you hear laughter in his voice. “Not to be pedantic, but uh, it was literally all mine.”

Factually speaking, you can’t disagree. “Regardless, I enjoyed myself. I promise.” You touch your forehead to his chest. “You can make it up to me next time, if you’re so inclined.”

“Of course, anything you want, Professor,” he enthuses, a little too loudly, a little too quickly.

“‘Anything’ is a pretty open offer,” you point out. Your eyes slip closed. “You don’t know what you’re signing yourself up for.”

His fingers trace their way down your spine. “Professor, that’s part of the fun. You know, most stories are more exciting when you don’t know where they’re headed.”

“Is that so?” you mumble, and the two of you slip into a warm, lazy silence.

That is, until Ashe clears his throat. “I, uh, do feel somewhat guilty, though.”

“There’s no need,” you assure him.

“Hm,” is his response, and another moment passes before he speaks up again. He nudges your shoulder and you let him push you onto your back. “If you’re not too tired,” he says, “let me make it up to you now.”

You consider it, idly swiping your fingers over the back of his hand as the cogs in your mind grind into motion. To be brutally honest, you have neither the energy nor the patience left in you to teach a virgin how to properly eat a woman out, even if that virgin is someone as sweet and eager and willing to learn as Ashe. 

And yet.

“Come here,” you tell him, low and husky. When he kisses your cheek, you feel his smile. “You’re cute, did you know that?”

He chuckles as he positions his leg over your hips, straddling you under the covers. “You mentioned something like that.”

“Well, I’m glad you’ve been paying attention.”

He leans in close and breathes “paying attention to you has always been rewarding.” As he kisses your neck, two things occur to you simultaneously. One, he’s mimicking what you did to him earlier. If he liked it enough to turn it back around on you, then you achieved what you set out to do. Plus, you can’t complain about him being a good student.

Two: “you’re braver in the dark.”

He hums, and you tilt your head back to allow his easier access to the sensitive skin. When he drags a hand up your breast and toys with the nipple, you sigh.

“That’s good, Ashe,” you say as you exhale. You get another hum in response.

As he lavishes attention on your neck, you wind your hands up to his back and splay your fingers out. The feeling of his muscles moving under your touch is a wonderful bonus, but mostly you do it just to hold onto him while you let your mind slip into the sensations he so willingly provides.

“It’s easier to be brave,” he says after a few minutes, “when I can’t see you watching me.”

“So, what you’re— _mmh_— saying is I should blindfold you next time,” you try to quip, but the casual effect is ruined somewhat when he rolls your nipple and you twist in his grasp.

He grins against the base of your throat, and you can’t help but think it’s at your expense. “I’d let you, you know,” he says as he drags his hands down your sides. “You could do anything to me and I wouldn’t see it coming, but I’d let you. I’d be so good for you, I swear.”

“Ashe!” you gasp. He laughs, and you guide his face back to yours. Though your eyes are better adjusted to the darkness now, you can’t make out much more than his silhouette. “What happened to the shy little archer I took to bed?” you ask, barely holding back a laugh of your own.

He ducks his head, tucking it against your cheek. You wind a hand loosely through his hair as he answers. “I’m still here. I may be shy, but I still, ah, have an imagination.”

“Goddess,” you remark.

“Nope, just Ashe,” he says lightly before kissing the tip of your nose.

“Oh, even better,” you return. You press the pads of your index and middle fingers to his lips, though you have to run your hand along his face to find your way there in the darkness. “Open up?”

His lips part enough for your fingers to slide in, and without delay, he sweeps his tongue around them and sucks eagerly. You press down on his tongue, drawing a noise from deep in his throat, then move you fingers in and out.

“I wish I’d gotten you to do this when I could still see you,” you tell him, and he moans around your fingers. “You’re so good, you’re taking to that so quickly. You must look breathtaking.” He hums at your words, and soft as a whisper you place your other hand at his throat to feel the vibrations. He shivers.

When you pull your fingers away, he tries to follow, but you stop him. “I know you wanted to do this, but let me get things started.”

“Wh— oh,” he says as you drag your hand lower between your bodies, making sure to graze the back of it against him so he’d know exactly where it was.

“Oh,” you echo, slipping your hand underneath the layers of fabric and lightly brushing against your outer lips. You angle your wrist so that you bump against him through the fabric as you move. You want him constantly aware of what’s going on.

He lets out a choked breath and slides a short way backwards. It occurs to you that perhaps the sudden friction against his dick wasn’t a welcome surprise. But then, gingerly, he lays his hand over where yours is, and you realise that he wants to feel what you’re doing as much as you want him to.

You make a show of it, moving in grander gestures than you usually would. When you slip your fingers into your folds, stroking between your inner and outer lips, you don’t fake a gasp, but you do exaggerate it.

“Byleth,” he says, his voice rough. He touches your wrist lightly. “Please let me help.”

“It’s more complicated for women,” you warn him.

“I know that.” He almost sounds defensive. “I, ah, I do read, you know.”

That makes you laugh, and he joins in. “Alright,” you say after a moment. You withdraw your hand, leaving a wet trail on your stomach, then take his hand in yours. “I have an idea, but I need you to roll back over for me. On your side, like we were before.”

With a squeeze of your hand, he slides off you, and you roll over to face him. He brings your clasped hands to his face, and you hold back on your next instructions. For a moment, he just holds them there. His breath is cool on your damp fingers. Then he licks them.

For once, you’re grateful for the dark, because you can feel your eyes widen. On the other hand, there’s not much you wouldn’t give to witness him sucking your fingers clean. Neither of you say anything for a moment after he stops.

Ashe is the one to break the silence. “…I’ve always wanted to try that,” he admits in a tiny, timid voice.

That knocks the words right out of your head, so you pull him close and kiss him hard. He barely has time to reciprocate before you pull back just as fast.

He giggles quietly. “Did I, uh, do good, Professor?”

“Yes,” you half-growl. His hand still in yours, you guide it down. Quickly, but not as quickly as you want. As quickly as you want is probably physically impossible, though, so you settle for what’s achievable.

His breath comes heavier as you push his fingers through the coarse thatch of hair. You dearly wish you could see his face. Next time, you remind yourself. Next time.

“Follow my lead,” you instruct. You stretch your fingers out over each of his. You can’t quite cover then, but as long as he’s willing, you know you’ll be able to move them just how you want.

And oh, he truly is willing.

You hook one leg over his, providing you both with more of an opening. Then you push his middle finger to your clit. Your breath staggers as you move it in gentle circles.

“Byleth,” Ashe whispers. “You’re so… it’s so…”

You bring your other hand to his arm and give it a light touch. “Don’t try to force the dirty talk if it doesn’t come naturally,” you suggest, pretty sure you’d recognised his stammering for what it was. “Just…” You bring his free hand to your chest and leave it there, placing your own hand on the side of his neck, all the while working the fingers between your legs.

He gets the idea. His hand wanders, groping, touching, toying, and when he moves closer to kiss you, you sigh into his mouth. Nearly all of your concentration goes towards manipulating his fingers against your wetness. You leave the rest of the work up to him. Luckily, he’s more than willing to step up to the plate.

The feeling of directing fingers that aren’t your own is… strange, you think. But good. Strange, but good. It’s different to having someone just doing their own thing down there. You’re in control. But not _completely_ in control. When you press, or line up your knuckles over his and pull, you get that direct tactile feedback from your own movements, but it’s still different, because it isn’t your fingers doing the touching. Anything else, though, Ashe has to consciously follow your fingers’ commands, and there’s always that slight delay, those little disparities between what you do and what you feel.

Also, the fact that it’s _Ashe’s_ fingers you’re guiding over your entrance? Sweet, earnest, wholesome Ashe? Yeah, that… that’s certainly worth consideration.

You whine when his lips leave yours. “Sorry,” he says, kissing your jaw. “I, ah, I just wanted to say, and I swear I’m not, uh, trying to force it or anything! But, uh…” He swallows. “I wanted to tell you that you feel really nice right now. That’s all.” His voice shrinks as he speaks, and when he’s finished he tucks his head into the crook of your neck.

Under different circumstances you might have a more eloquent response, but for now all you can manage is, “Ashe.” You swipe his fingers up and focus both of your efforts on your core.

“If there’s anything I can do to make this better,” he says, “anything at all…”

“Use your… use… mmph.” You take him by the hair and guide his face to your chest. Obligingly, he licks a stripe up and over your nipple, teasing the other between his fingers. You arch against him with a soft hum.

Keeping track of specifics at this point is… tricky, to say the least. Your breathing is heavy, and at some point you dropped your head to the top of his, and you can smell sweat mixed with the faintest powdery traces of whatever soap he uses in his hair. It’s floral, you think?

Your hips buck against his hand, which you clutch tightly to yourself. That familiar white heat pools in your abdomen, and every swish of his tongue and touch of his fingers fuels another wild flicker of flame.

Then you push against him and the fire blooms, unfurling all over you, hot and cold and consuming. You keep moving against him as it runs its course, letting the friction pull you along until it peters out, and even pleasant touch is too much. You pull his hand out of your smallclothes and flop onto your back, staring unseeing at the ceiling as you catch your breath.

When you feel a little more re-tethered to the ground, you turn back onto your side to face him. Before you can say anything, there’s a warm hand on your cheek.

“I hope you’ll believe me if I say you’re beautiful,” Ashe says softly. “I know it might be hypocritical of me, but still.”

“You can’t even see me,” you point out. Your voice is more ragged than when you last spoke.

He shuffles in close enough that his breath tickles the tiny hairs on your face. “I don’t need to.” And he kisses you.

When you wake to sunlight the next morning, you’re the only one in the room. The colour of the light tells you it’s still early, and you don’t hear the telltale chorus of feet above and outside your room that would signal the breakfast rush. You’ve half a mind to roll over and go back to sleep. You move a hand to your neck and stretch, and the movement makes you realise the snugness of the blankets which have been carefully tucked up around your shoulders. The blankets, which smell just a little bit floral.

It wasn’t as if it had truly slipped your mind, but now the night before rushes back to you in full force. Sleep won’t be coming back for you today. Tilting your head so that your nose presses closer to the pillows, you inhale. There it is. It’s not strong, but you can clearly pick out that soapy scent you’d smelled in Ashe’s hair the night before, when you were…

You’re surprised by a smile tugging at your lips as a little thrill runs down your spine. You’d smiled a lot last night, hadn’t you? Laughed, too. More than you could recall in, well, ever, now that you think about it.

That’s not been your experience with sex in the past. Not that you didn’t enjoy your past encounters. And it’s not that they were sombre undertakings, either. You’d trade cheeky quips and jests, you’d gleefully tease, you’d give as good as you got. But… you’re not smiley. You don’t emote that much. So why did you smile so much at Ashe?

And when you think of it that way, the answer’s obvious to you. Because it was Ashe. Because Ashe makes you smile. Because he’s your friend. You laugh aloud at yourself for your confusion, when now it seems so clear. You smile around your friends, sometimes. You know you do, they’ve pointed it out.

Part of you is glad you had this realisation alone. It’s so blindingly simple that, had you voiced your puzzlement to Ashe at all, you’d be embarrassed for him to know you’d not understood. Even though you know he wouldn’t judge you for it.

Still, you are a little surprised he left without a word. It wasn’t as if you had any expectations or thought he should behave one way or the other. But you had him pegged for the cuddling type. On the other hand, you did learn quite a bit about him that you’d never have guessed last night, so perhaps you shouldn’t be shocked by anything.

You prop yourself up and wipe the sleep out of you eyes. As you wonder if you should start getting ready for the day ahead, the Cathedral bells helpfully ring out to answer the question for you. One, two, three, four, five, six. After a long, hard stretch of your arms, you sigh and let your feet hit the floor. And, as your eyes absently skip over your room, you notice the top you’d haphazardly discarded last night is neatly folded over the back of the chair at your desk. That was nice of Ashe, you think as you pad over to retrieve it and stow it away in the drawer that was normally its daytime home. However, as your fingers touch the fabric, you stop, because there’s a note on the desk.

You pick the note up to read, then quickly place it back down and put your top on. Some people don’t know how to knock, and you don’t fancy them finding you topless. _Then_ you read the note.

_Sorry to go without saying anything! I just didn’t want to wake you. You looked so peaceful, and if anyone deserves a rest, it’s you. I would have liked to talk with you again in the morning, but I thought I should make myself scarce before anyone had the chance to see me with you and hassle you over it. You have much more important things to worry about than that! The last thing I want to do is add to your list of concerns._

_I don’t know if I’ll have the courage to bring this up in the light of day. Truthfully, I’m having enough trouble writing about it as it is. But thank you. Actually, I don’t think ‘thank you’ covers it, but I don’t know what else to say, really! But I wanted to say that, at least. You mentioned a next time last night. If that was just an off the cuff joke, then I apologise in advance for this: I am very much looking forward to next time. I hope that’s not too forward of me._

_You probably already know this, but any time you need my help again, all you have to do is ask. I won’t say no._

He didn’t sign it, but that hardly matters. Once again, you find yourself smiling without even trying, emotion marching onto your face of its own accord as if that’s a normal thing for it to do. It’s kind of nice, actually. You fold the note with care and tuck it away in a drawer for safe keeping. As you gather up your outfit for the day and set about your morning routine, you think about how to let Ashe know that you were absolutely, one hundred percent serious about ‘next time’.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> byleth: huh i'm smiling a lot  
byleth: his laugh is like music  
byleth: i've never met someone so sweet  
byleth: when i look at his smile it's like the sun  
byleth: i need him to know how beautiful he is  
byleth: we're such good friends :)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this took so long!! had some Health Situations along the way, but that's nothing new. haven't thoroughly edited this chapter but i'm about to fall asleep and i wanted to get it posted. enjoy!!! :)
> 
> fenori drew some amazing art for this chapter!!!: https://sta.sh/01d8cb5vo9p2  
thank you so so much asdfasdf,

Four days after your best night in recent memory, you kill Ferdinand von Aegir.

You’ve killed people you know before. Not necessarily people you’ve had any quarrel with. People who’ve fought by your side, in some cases. People who might have saved your life in days long passed, but ended up taking jobs from rich folks with goals diametrically opposed to those of your own client at the time. These things happen. You’re a mercenary, a sellsword.

Well, you were. 

You were a mercenary. Then you became a teacher. You still don’t know why you accepted it so easily, and you guess you never will. But weirdly enough, you took to it. Before you knew it, you cared about a whole bunch of youngsters. Some of them might only have been a year or two younger than you (and back then, you didn’t know the specifics), but almost all of them were so innocent to the idea of real combat, which made them so much more childlike in your eyes. But instead of seeing them as liabilities, you helped them grow, and their successes became your successes, and pretty soon you realised you hadn’t been so happy in your life.

You were a mercenary, then a teacher. Then you took a nap for five years. Now you just want to end this war.

Grisly as it is, to win the war, you have to kill your enemies. And if some of your former students are enemies? Arithmetic has never been your strong suit, but you don’t need a brain like Lysithea’s to be able to do that math.

So, when you kill Ferdinand, it’s not the first time you’ve killed someone you know. It’s just the first time since you learned to care.

Claude’s rides up beside you a couple of hours into the first leg of the long journey back to Garreg Mach.

“I tried to spare his life,” you say. Your eyes focus on the clouds above, dyed pink by the setting sun, shapes morphing quickly with the wind. “He wouldn’t hear of it.”

“Would you?” Claude fires back, casual as anything.

“Would I what?”

“Throw your lot in with Edelgard to save your own skin.”

You frown. “No. Not after everything.”

“There you go, Teach. You understand where our pal Ferdie was coming from, like it or not,” he says with a crooked smile.

You can’t argue with that, so instead, you sigh. “I wish I could’ve saved him.”

“That’s the nature of life, isn’t it? You don’t need me to tell you that. Not everyone can be saved.” He pushes his hair off his face. “You got lucky with Ashe.”

A soldier calls out a message from up ahead: they’ve found a good spot to set up camp for the night. But you don’t hear her. You’re busy performing the aural equivalent of a double take. “Pardon?”

When Claude grins at you, it reaches his eyes. “I just meant you’re lucky he values his life above someone else’s honour. Why, what’d you think I meant?” And before you can answer that, he spurs his horse ahead.

Long after the sun has taken its leave, you find yourself warming your hands at a campfire with an assortment of your ex-students and comrades in arms. Most of you finished eating a while ago, though you notice Raphael still has some bread. That surprises you. He usually wolfs his food down at a record-breaking pace.

Claude and Hilda have their arms wrapped around each others shoulders as they sing a perfectly out of tune rendition of a Leicester folk song you’ve heard a few times before. You are less familiar with the bawdy lyrics they substitute in, eliciting disapproving and scandalised looks from Seteth and Lorenz respectively.

“Could you knock it off out there?” comes Lysithea’s voice from somewhere behind you. You and about half of the group turn to face her as she continues, her head poking out of her tent. “You’re acting like a bunch of teenagers out past bedtime.”

“Lysithea is quite right,” Lorenz says before anyone else can get a word in. “It’s hardly proper, spouting off such nonsense—”

Hilda guffaws. “Oh, it’s not nonsense.”

“He does have a point, Hilda,” Claude says with a twinkle in his eye that Lorenz clearly doesn’t recognise as the harbinger of mischief that it is, because he preens.

“Thank you, Claude. I hadn’t expected you to acquiesce to reason so quickly, but I must say I am impressed.”

Hilda looks at Claude with wide pink eyes and a poorly disguised grin. At least someone recognised the mischief sparkle.

“You’re most welcome, my dear Lorenz. It was quite inconsiderate of us indeed to sing about matters you don’t understand right in front of you.”

Lorenz gasps indignantly. His hand goes to his heart. “Of course I understand! You are wilfully misrepresenting the issue!”

Flayn, who as far as you had been aware had been quietly chatting to Ashe until this point, cleared her throat. “Do pardon me, Lorenz, but you did call their song nonsense! That would indicate it did not make sense to you, would it not?”

“I love you, Flayn,” cackles Hilda, wiping an imaginary tear from her eye.

“Exactly, Flayn,” says Claude, grinning brilliantly. “Lorenz here is probably just embarrassed I brought his lack of expertise to everyone’s attention. Sorry Lorenz, rude of me, but I’m more than happy to fill you in. See, the arrow’s shaft symbolises—”

“Claude, enough!” snaps Seteth, standing.

At the same time, Lorenz visibly bristles. “I know exactly the body part to which the arrow’s shaft refers!”

“Lorenz, shut up!” Lysithea shouts, glaring out of her tent with eyes that said she was fighting off the urge to immolate him then and there, and that she wasn’t winning.

Lorenz shoots up, face drawn tight, and looks over the group of you. “Good evening to you all,” he says with a bow. He storms off to his own tent to nurse his wounded pride. For just a moment, no sounds come from your little circle except the crackling of fire and Hilda’s tiny giggles.

“Wow,” Raphael says, staring off sympathetically in the direction Lorenz had gone. “He really was embarrassed.”

Seteth walks briskly over to Flayn as Hilda holds her own midsection and laughs wholeheartedly. “Flayn,” he says as both Flayn and Ashe look up at him. “The hour is late and you need your rest.”

Flayn frowns, defiance in her large green eyes. “I am no longer a child, Brother, and I do not need to be sent off to bed like one.”

Ashe shrinks where he sits. His hands wrap tightly around his mug of mulled wine, and he looks anywhere but Seteth. You catch his eye, and what you see there is nothing if not a cry for help.

“Ashe,” you say with a raised voice, “I just remembered, you never did tell me how that one story ended. The one with… Triphon, was it?”

It’s not convincing. At all. But regardless, Ashe jumps at the lifeline you’ve thrown. “Kyphon,” he corrects automatically as he gets to his feet. “Ah, apologies, Flayn,” he says, ducking his head as he makes his escape.

“It is no trouble, Ashe,” she calls out after him.

Ashe scurries over to where you sit on the opposite side of the circle to Flayn. He sits on the ground beside you with a sigh.

“Thank you,” he says softly. He needn’t be quiet, you think, given Flayn and Seteth are already re-embroiled in their argument, and anyone with a brain between their ears can tell you made an excuse up on the spot for him.

“Don’t mention it,” you say, matching his volume anyway. “It was nothing.”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “It wasn’t ‘nothing’. To my hero!” He lifts his mug in a charade of a toast, and you can’t help but smile.

“Sadly, I can’t drink to that,” you tell him, retrieving your own long emptied mug and clinking it against his. You wonder, briefly, just how Leonie managed to finagle enough wine to be noticeably inebriated, portions rationed as they were.

Ashe’s face turns into a mask of mock severity. “Well, that just won’t do.” He holds his mug out to you, raising his eyebrows.

For a second, you mean to refuse. You’re not that desperate for an extra mouthful. He should have his own drink to himself. But you catch that glimmer of hope and playfulness in his eyes, and that ends up making your choice for you.

“What a gentleman,” you say as you accept the mug.

He waits until you have it to your lips before speaking. “O-Only for the pretty ones.” His voice is hushed as Garreg Mach when you returned to it on waking, but you hear him clear as day.

You look at his through the corner of your eye as you swallow, your face impassive. “You made yourself blush,” you point out when you hand the cup back to him.

He laughs and looks away. “To be fair, that’s not very hard to do.”

“That’s true.” You hand his mug back. “You seemed to be having a nice conversation with Flayn until a minute ago.”

Ashe hums in agreement, smiling out over the fire as Flayn bids those left at the fire a good night. Seteth watches her go, then retakes his seat with Leonie and Raphael. The only words you’ve overheard from them have been about fish.

“Dedue used to give her cooking lessons,” Ashe says, eyes lingering on the flames. “Now, I’m a confident cook — you know that — but Dedue’s skills in the kitchen are incredible. He taught me so much. We were… mostly sharing stories about him, I suppose. Did you get to know him at all, Professor?”

He looks at you out of the corner of his eyes and you get the sinking feeling that the only answer you can give is going to disappoint him. “I didn’t,” you say simply.

Ashe seems a little saddened at that. “Oh. I see. That’s a real shame, if you don’t mind my saying so.” He turns his attention back to the fire. You watch the reflected light dance in his eyes.

“What’s he like?” you ask. You rest your face on your hand and keep watching him, studying the way the flickering glow of the fire animates light and shade across his face.

He responds without missing a beat. “One of the kindest men I’ve ever met,” he says with certainty. “He put others before himself constantly, and even when people judged him terribly and unfairly just because of his homeland, he took it in stride. I can’t recall a time his selflessness failed. It’s just not right, the way people treated him… oh!” He turns to look at you and startles to find you staring.

You smile softly before breaking eye contact. “I wish I’d talked to him more. Perhaps I’ll get the chance one day.”

Ashe shifts. He crosses his arms and rests them on his knees, slouching a little. “Mm. I hope so, Professor.” You don’t think he sounds like he has much hope for that, but you’d sooner smell Demonic Beast breath than point that out.

The merriment is winding down around you. Hilda takes her leave, blowing a joking kiss to Leonie, who… mimes catching it and eating it? Alright, then. You’re still impressed she evidently got her hands on someone else’s wine.

Claude stands, stretches, catches your eye and winks. You raise your eyebrows in question. He shrugs, then ambles over to sit with Raphael, Leonie and Seteth. Before joining their chat in earnest, he looks meaningfully between you and Ashe, who sports a faraway look in his eyes and has apparently noticed exactly none of this.

“It’s… it’s eating away at me,” Ashe says quietly. You don’t ask what, you just wait for him to continue. “Not knowing what’s become of any of the Blue Lions. Aside from… ah, the obvious.”

“Dimitri,” you say.

He sighs, just a little shakily. You put a hand on his arm and offer a comforting squeeze. That brings the faintest of smiles to his face, which in turn does the same to yours.

Just for a moment, he places one of his own hands over yours. He drops it just as quickly. 

“I…” he starts, interrupting himself to swallow. “I think I ought to sleep. It’s been a long day.”

“That it has,” you agree. Without your permission, your thoughts slide back to Ferdinand. Ferdinand, who was not in your house and never had cause to attend many of your seminars, but who was a confident and vivacious thread of Garreg Mach’s tapestry all the same. Ferdinand, who inadvertently planted the seed of the great oak tree that was Tea Time With Professor Byleth.

Ferdinand, whose eyes burned with the fiery determination of a young man desperate to prove himself even as you ran him through.

As Ashe stands, you catch him by the wrist. You could’ve just spoken, you realise as he jumps in your grasp and looks down at you with wide, surprised eyes. “A-ah, Professor?”

You release his wrist. “I just wanted to say,” you begin, without the foggiest idea of how you want to say it. “Thank you for… not insisting on your own death.”

He nods slowly. You think he flushes a little, but in this light, with his back to the fire, it’s hard to tell. He looks like he’s going to say something, and you wait for it, but instead he claps his hand on your shoulder.

“Good night, Pr— Byleth,” he says, smiling and turning away.

“Sleep well,” you say to him as he goes.

There were so many paths that would have led to him not being here. He could so easily be a corpse in Aillel by now. But you offered to spare him and he jumped at the chance. Ferdinand didn’t. Now Ferdinand’s dead. Would you have turned your sword on Ashe in the same manner, had he refused? Your stomach turns. Yes, you would have. You know that. In the heat of battle, you do what you must. But now, sitting in peace with weary friends, the thought sickens you. The idea of killing Ashe in another timeline that didn’t come to pass affects you more than the reality of having been the reason Ferdinand hacked up blood with his last gasping breath. You wonder what that says about you. Then you stop wondering, because you don’t care to know.

It’s not until Ashe is out of sight that you notice he’s left the last of his wine behind. For a moment, you wonder if he meant to, but you dismiss the thought — he wouldn’t leave the mug for someone else to deal with, small a task as it was. There’s only a couple of mouthfuls left, so you raise the mug in a private toast to Ashe’s health meant only for you to see and down the contents.

“Bottoms up, Teach,” grins Claude, because of course he was watching. You collect Ashe’s mug as well as your own, take them to the nearest collection box for dishes, then join the group still talking by the fire.

The rest of the trip back to the monastery sees you kept busy by a stream of people who want to talk to you. Claude mostly talks plans — what’s to come after the Bridge, and after that, and after that, and after that. Sometimes Seteth joins the two of you, eager to both find out and offer his opinion regarding the course of action for the only force in Fodlan with the power to bring Rhea back.

You learn that Leonie traded most of her meal for Raphael’s wine. Her emptier stomach probably helped her tipsiness to march along the night before, and she doesn’t appear to be hung over at all. You’re forced to conclude that it was a mutually beneficial deal. Well done, them.

Flayn catches you in a rare moment to yourself. She wants to know what you thought of her lance work in the recent battle. You tell it to her true — she did great, actually. You’ll make a Holy Knight of her yet, despite her distaste for battle on horseback. She’s still not completely sold on the idea, that much is obvious even when she tries so hard to conceal her grimace. But still, her eyes gleam when you describe her speeding across the battlefield, reaching a scattered handful of desperate allies just in time to wrest every one of them from the clutches of death with a much needed Fortify spell.

“I shall be unstoppable,” she declares, pumping a fist and giggling. You’re inclined to agree.

The subject drifts towards the night around the fire. She asks after the tale of Triphon-no-wait-it-was-Kyphon that Ashe had supposedly told you, which you say it would be better to ask Ashe himself about. You’re no storyteller.

“I think I will do just that,” she says, pulling on the reins just a little to guide her horse along the path. “There will be plentiful time for stories when we cook together.”

“You’re going to cook together?” you prompt.

“Indeed we are! I confess my own skills in the kitchen are rather lacking, but during our academy days, Dedue of the Blue Lions kindly spent some of his free time teaching me. I found I rather enjoyed it, despite my lack of proficiency. Oh, how I treasure those memories.”

Her unrestrained happiness is infectious. “That sounds lovely.”

“Truly, it was! Ashe and I discovered we have a mutual friend in Dedue. He offered to cook with me in Dedue’s absence, and I am quite excited to take him up on that. He did mention several times that his own culinary skills are not up to par with Dedue’s, but if I may offer some small conjecture, I suspect he was merely being modest.”

“He does that,” you say with a nod. “You’re in good hands, I’ve cooked with him many times.”

She claps her hands together. “Oh, how wonderful! If it is not too much of an imposition on your time, Professor, perhaps you could catch some fish for us upon our return to the Monastery? I would not presume to ask you to help us prepare the meal, as I am sure your schedule is full to bursting, but should you provide us with fish it would be as if I got to cook with you as well.”

When you agree to the idea, her face could light up the darkest night. You could point out that fishing also takes up time. You could, were you a monster.

Back at the monastery, you spend the better part of the afternoon casting a line at the pond. On arrival, you’d changed into your old Officer Academy style teacher’s uniform (which incidentally, you’d never actually seen any other teachers wear.) You’re glad to be out of your battle-worn cape and clothes.

As the sky turns orange and the clouds a shade of red, Flayn skips over to you to collect today’s bounty. You intended to bring the fish to the kitchen yourself, but you thank her for saving you the effort. Her eyes glimmer when you hand over everything you’ve caught, save for the lone Golden Fish. It’ll fetch a price that will see several weapons repaired before they’re next needed.

Flayn bounces off excitedly. You decide to keep fishing for a while in hopes of coaxing another Golden Fish to bite. You have no such luck, but you do snag a handful of Queen Loaches and a Bullheads before you’re fresh out of bait. You bundle up your catches and head to the kitchen to hand them over. Both Ashe and Flayn are gone by the time you’re there, leaving only monastery staff, who are more than happy to take the fish off your hands.

Activity in the dining hall itself is winding down for the night. You sit and enjoy your dinner alone. It’s good. Some kind of cheesy fish and pasta bake? You don’t know the specifics. This isn’t your area of expertise. Either way, you’ll have to pass your compliments to the chefs. Ashe and Flayn did a good job. As always, in Ashe’s case, you think.

When your forces first get back from an excursion, life in the monastery is harried and sluggish all at once. There are staff working double-time to make sure everyone settles back in just fine. Their efforts don’t get enough credit, you think, because the whole operation would fall apart without those who work behind the scenes.

At the same time, many of Garreg Mach’s inhabitants are weary. Tired from the journey and its demands. You figure you fit more snugly into the latter group than the former. While most returning soldiers are exhausted both in body and mind, you’re feeling physically fine. It’s only your thoughts that bother you.

When night has well and truly fallen, you try to sleep. Ferdinand’s face puts a halt to that. You see the light leave his eyes whenever you close your own. It’s stupid, you think. Completely ridiculous. A longtime mercenary like you, a battle-hardened veteran, torn up over killing an enemy soldier you used to sort of know.

It isn’t as if Ferdinand’s presence at Myrddin came out of left field. You’re fighting the Empire. He was a child of high-ranking Adrestian officials who attended the Officer’s Academy with the Emperor. If anything, you should have expected this.

Exhaling harshly through your nose, you force yourself to think about who else you might face. Bernadetta, who never left her room? Linhardt, who’d want to be anywhere but a battlefield? Dorothea, who only wanted to secure her own future?

If you see them it will be as combatants, you remind yourself. You’ll try to save them, naturally, but you need to get used to the idea that you can’t control how that turns out. You can only do so much. You have to do your part to end this war, and that’s a higher priority than the life of someone too stubborn to take the chance you offer.

Something roils in your gut, and fuck it, you don’t want to think about this any more. You throw yourself to your feet and march out of your room, and before you really think about where you’re going you knock on Ashe’s door.

To no avail.

You try again, but he doesn’t seem to be there. Okay. That’s fine. He has his own life, he doesn’t have to be available at your beck and call. You can go for a walk, instead. It’ll be helpful to get your body moving.

You suppose that’s what you were aiming for at Ashe’s door. A walk makes a poor substitute, but you’re determined to enjoy it nonetheless. You’re a bit too antsy to do any monastery clean-up today, so you don’t bother with the sack. All you need are your working legs and the bracing night air.

Once you’ve decided not to look for him, of course, you find Ashe leaning on the balustrade of the bridge to the Cathedral. The cool breeze ruffles his smoky-grey hair. He doesn’t seem to notice it blowing into his face, but it must be obscuring his vision as he stares out over the rivers below.

It isn’t as if you’re trying to sneak up on him, but he doesn’t notice your presence until you’re within an arm’s reach. He gasps, jumping backwards and looking to you with wide eyes until he processes that it’s you he’s seeing. He lets out the air he’d gasped in with a sigh, turning back to the barrier.

“Sorry, you surprised me,” he says.

You sidle up next to him. “May I join you?”

“Of course,” he says like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, and you fold your arms atop the barrier. “You don’t need to ask.”

“I thought you might’ve come here to be alone.”

“Well, I did,” he admits with a soft laugh, “but to be honest, I’d much rather spend time with you. Gosh, that sounds a little cornier out loud than I’d hoped.”

“I think it’s sweet,” you say, unfolding your arms again just to hook one around his. A little smile tugs at his lips, and he turns his eyes forward again, looking out over the expanse below.

“You seemed lost in thought when I found you,” you observe. It’s not a question, you’re not putting pressure on him to open up, but at the same time, the invitation is there if he’d like.

He hums in what you’re fairly sure is agreement, but stays quiet for a moment. Your eyes go to his face, and you find his gaze is distant. He might be looking out over the landscape, but you doubt he’s paying it any attention.

“It’s been five years since I spoke with Felix,” he says finally, “and nearly as long since getting any word from Dedue. I… I must have lost track, I don’t know. I still don’t know. All I’m sure of is I stopped getting letters. I…” He trails off, takes in a breath, and continues. “I was able to stay in contact with Ingrid and Annette for longer than anyone, but I haven’t seen a message from Annette in a year. Almost two, for Ingrid. Things were looking grim in Galatea, she told me that, but I couldn’t help. I… don’t like to think about what all the silence could mean.”

“Perhaps they didn’t feel they could risk sending information into House Rowe territory,” you suggest.

He shrugs. “I guess that’s a better thought than the alternatives.”

“Can I confess something to you?” you ask.

“Oh! Uh, y-yes, yes, of course!”

“I find myself…” you chew on your lip, searching for the right words, “unsettled, I suppose, by what happened to Ferdinand. Or rather, what I had to do to him.”

Ashe blinks. “Is that all?” He must not like what he sees in your face because instantly his eyes are wide. “Ah, no, I don’t mean to dismiss how you’re feeling! That didn’t come out right! It’s just that that’s hardly a confession? Anyone would be unhappy over having to hurt a former friend. No one would judge you for that.”

“Hm,” you respond, unconvinced. “It was keeping me awake. That’s why I went looking for you.”

“Oh? You were looking for me?

You nod. “But you weren’t in your room, so I figured you were probably busy.”

He clears his throat. “Not so busy that we couldn’t go back there.” You look at him, and he’s a little red in the face, but you’re admittedly impressed that he got that line out without stammering. He can’t maintain eye contact for long, though. “Ah, that is, to my room…” he fumbles.

“But that’s all the way on the other side of the monastery,” you fake-whine. “There must be somewhere closer.” Pointedly, you look away from him, and let your eyes settle on the structure half-hidden by the Cathedral.

He follows your gaze. “The Goddess Tower?”

You press closer against his side and give his arm a squeeze. “Oh, that’s a good idea. But it must be locked this time of night. However will we get in?”

“I have a few, ah, tricks up my sleeve,” he says with a laugh.

In a deliberately over the top and silly gesture, you waggle your eyebrows. “You’ll have to show me these tricks of yours.”

There’s a moment when you wonder if the Goddess Tower, stony and bare, really was the right place to rendezvous, but then you have Ashe up against a wall and your mouth is on his and you decide that yes, it’s perfectly fine.

“I haven’t stopped thinking about this,” he confesses, his voice low and raspy as you break apart for a moment. “I meant what I wrote about, uh, looking forward to next time.”

“Oh, that letter was from you?” you say with a straight face. “There was no name, so I couldn’t tell. Couldn’t been from anyone.”

He laughs and brushes your hair from your eyes as his other hand trails from your waist to your hip. “Sorry, Professor. My mistake. Can I ever make it up to you?”

“You can certainly try.” Your fingers go to the fastenings on his coat. You briefly make eye contact, looking for permission. He grants it with a smile. You work your way down, but when Ashe’s hands reach for your uniform jacket to do the same, you stop him.

“Not just yet,” you tell him as you push his coat aside to run your hands along his waist.

“Ah, alright then,” he says, a little confused but willing to go with it. “Whatever you say, Professor.” He ducks his head and runs his tongue along your lips, which you part with a soft moan. His arms wrap back around you. One hand dances to the back of your neck, weaving under your hair to trace your upper vertebrae.

You step back and give him just enough room to slide his coat from his shoulders. Before it hits the ground, your hands are in him again.

“If it’s okay to ask,” he starts as you nibble along his jawline, “why, o-ohh, can’t I…?” In lieu of finishing his sentence he gives your jacket a light tug.

You chuckle against his skin and drift closer to his ear. “Because I said so.”

He puffs a laugh, but you only get one solid nip on his ear lobe in before gently, he pushes you back. You look to his face and find he’s trying to pout. It’s working, but only well enough to get the message across.

“But Professor,” he whines, and you nearly burst out laughing then and there. “That’s not like you at all.”

“Oh, isn’t it?” You’re fighting a losing battle to keep your mouth in a straight line.

He shakes his head, and the pad of this thumb goes to the corner of your quivering lips. “It isn’t! You, ah, you always explained the reasons behind everything you told us, made sure we actually understood what we were learning. You didn’t become everyone’s favourite teacher by telling us your word was law.”

You stop fighting and let yourself smirk. You don’t miss the glimmer of fondness in Ashe’s eyes that follows. “So, that’s what this is about. Playing favourites with teachers. Well, if you’d rather be doing this with Hanneman, you’re welcome to go track him down.”

Ashe snorts. “No! Wha— no! Byleth!”

You blink up at him with eyes as wide and innocent as you can manage. “Is that not what you were angling for?”

“It— it wasn’t. No. Goddess, Byleth.”

“One and the same,” you quip.

He breathes a laugh, shaking his head before looking you in the eyes. “That’s truer than you know.” And before you can ask what he means, “Anyway, why do you ask? Is that, ah, something you’ve been thinking about? Something you’d like to see?”

Well. Your turn to snort now. “Not even remotely,” you tell him. Maybe someone closer to our age, you muse, but you rein that line of thinking in before it can leave the stable. “But you did raise a good point. About explaining, I mean.”

“Oh, I did?”

“Mm-hmm,” you say. “What kind of a Professor would I be if I left you confused? So, here’s why: I like the idea of having you naked and blushing beneath me before I’ve shed a single thing.”

His breath hitches, and you note with mischievous glee that he’s getting a great head-start on the blushing. You trace a finger along his jaw and lightly tilt his head so your eyes meet. He offers no resistance, nor does he try to look away.

“Is that an adequate explanation, Ashe?”

He wets his lips. “A-actually, Professor, I think I need a…” — he swallows — “…a more hands on demonstration. Just to make sure I really get it.”

“Naturally,” you purr.

His shirt’s gone pretty quickly. You run your hands along his torso, paying attention to how his muscles clench and shift under your touch. Your finger brushes a nipple on its way past and he lets out a sweet, shaky sigh.

You hum with approval as your mouth moves against his. You’re going to take your time with this, you decide as you shuffle just that little bit closer, pressing your thigh between his legs and closing the gap as much as you can while still giving your hands freedom to roam.

When you graze his nipple again, you’re rewarded with a similar response to before. Grinning — and with your faces so close you know he can feel that — you take it between your index and middle fingers and your thumb and roll it with ghostly touches as light as warm breath hitting cool air.

There’s almost vocalisation behind his faltering ‘ah!’.

“Sensitive, hm?” You apply just a tiny bit more pressure for a fraction of a second before easing off again.

“Y-yes, I guess so,” he manages. He holds you fast against him as you kiss your way to his throat. The marks you left days ago have mostly faded. Only mostly. Traces remain, signposting where you should put your fingers, your lips, your teeth. Where he might still be a little bit raw.

Ashe’s hands have been wandering lower. When you latch onto one of his ghostly lavender bruises he cups your behind and squeezes. His fingers are long, drifts through your mind, and then it’s gone. You hum in approval before he can second-guess himself. You tilt your hips backward, further into his grip, and at the same time move your thigh against his groin. The way he gasps your name between breaths is lovely. Good enough to eat, you think, and softly (but not too softly), you bite down.

He moans, and hearing it is good enough, but you can feel it too, feel it reverberating through his chest. He was already hard, but. Well. Evidence suggests the biting really works for him. Which is convenient to say the least, given how well it works for you, too. His hand on the small of your back presses you fast against him, while the other holds firmly onto your ass.

You touch a hand lightly to his bicep and attempt to shift back, but he holds you in place. You’ve the strength to get free if you really needed to, but you suspect he just hasn’t realised you want to move.

“Ashe,” you say just to get his attention.

His eyes snap to yours. “Yes? What is it?”

His grip slackens enough for you to make enough room to trail a hand down between you, down, down to where his hardness strains against his pants. When your fingers trace the outline of the bulge he groans and holds you tight again, but as your hand is already there the action does quite the opposite of impeding your journey. You flex your fingers against him and he muffles a moan in your hair.

“Passable, is it?” you ask, digging fingers into his waist as you rub his through the fabric.

He exhales, forcefully and shakily in equal measure. “More than,” he rasps. “Byleth.”

“Oh, good. I couldn’t tell,” you tease. He takes in a breath as if to reply but you nibble a line down his shoulder and all that he can manage is a wordless stammer. His breathing is heavy as you stroke up and down. When you drag your hand lower still and slide it between his thighs to fondle him from below he shudders and grinds into your palm.

You grip with the hand between his legs, and at the same time, your fingers on his waist dig at the skin. He cries out, eyes snapping open, then they flutter closed again as the cry gives way to a moan. Your lower hand drifts upward again, skimming over the laces of his pants that now really seem to be in the way as you trace your fingers up his length.

Higher up, your fingers skim softly over the marks they’d left, pulling stuttering breaths from Ashe as they flit across the angry half-moon indentations.

“Was that okay? With my nails?” you check, though you think you know the answer.

“Yes,” he confirms, “yes, yes, it was okay, it was good.”

“Tolerable, or ‘do it again’ good?” Both of your hands land on the lacing of his pants.

“Th— the latter,” he says. “Definitely the latter.”

You hum and tug at the laces without making to undo them. “I’ll keep that in mind. May I?” 

He nods enthusiastically, sliding his hand from your backside to your hip and holding the other to your cheek. Dropping a kiss to your forehead, he says, “please do.”

As your fingers get to work you tilt your head up to catch your his lips in yours. You feel the vibration of a sound you can’t quite hear. He gasps when you expose his cock to the cold night air. He gasps again, deeper and harsher, when you palm the head, getting pre-cum all over your hand.

You draw all of him out and pump your hand with a languid, nearly lazy rhythm. He lets his head fall forward so that his mouth is just about level with your ear.

“Byleth,” he breathes, and repeats himself a couple of times. Then he takes the bottom of your earlobe into his mouth, suckling at it. The air from his nose tickles inside your ear, but having his breathing so loud and in-your-face is a great way to keep track of how he’s traveling. Which, of course, is important given you have more exciting ideas (half-formed though they may be, but you’ve always been a good strategist on the fly) than jacking him off against a wall.

Ashe takes your hips in his hands and pulls you tighter, trying to move against you. In response, you slow your hand. He whines.

“Poor baby.” You pat his cheek, and huff a laugh when genuine annoyance flashes across his eyes.

“Byleth… what… I was so…” he stumbles, brows drawing together. With a smirk, you trace one finger back down the length of his hardness and he just about chokes on air.

“I’m aware,” you say airily, retracting the finger as he tries to move. “I’d rather not cut the fun short, if that’s alright with you.” You drag a hand up his side, and as far as you can tell, his irritation has given way to understanding, even if there’s still some frustration left over. 

“Oh,” he says, studying your face with half-lidded eyes. “Well, in that case, can I, uh…” Instead of elaborating — verbally, at least — he places his hands on your shoulders. As you await whatever he has in mind, you settle your own hands on his hips, thumbing over the skin that peeks out above his waistband.

He hesitates a moment longer. Then, quickly but not roughly, he whirls you around so that it’s your back at the wall.

“Er, can I do that?” he asks sheepishly.

You arch a brow. “Seems you can,” you return, wrapping your arms around him and feeling the expanse of his back, cold from prolonged contact with the stone. It hits you belatedly that one palm and set if fingers is still messy from bringing Ashe close to the edge. Grimacing, you pull it off him and blindly try to wipe the residue from his skin with your clean (relatively speaking) hand.

“Sorry,” you mumble. He chuckles and traces his hands off your shoulders, down your arms. He grips you at the elbows and guides your arms out from behind him, then drags his hands down to your wrists.

“Should I help you tidy up, Professor?” he asks innocently, bringing your hands so close to his face you can feel his breath on your fingers. Blinking owlishly, he stays like that, awaiting your response.

Internally, you scramble. It’s only for a moment, but you didn’t expect this from him, and you love it, so it knocks you off your guard. But only for a moment. Composed as anything, you tilt your head back, gazing down your nose at Ashe despite his height advantage.

“I suppose you’ve earned it,” you say like it’s a great concession. “You’ve been so good today.”

His eyelids go heavy. “Only for you, Professor.” Maintaining eye contact, he licks a thin line from the base of your palm to the end of your ring finger, swirling his tongue around it when he reaches the tip before taking it into his mouth.

You let out a giggle that quickly turns into a moan. “That’s not quite true, Ashe.”

He lets out an inquisitive sound, but still slides his tongue over your fingers, lavishing them with attention and licking up every drop of his own juices he can find.

“You’re good to everyone,” you elaborate. The urge to cup a hand to his cheek strikes hard and insistent, but he’s holding both of your wrists captive, not just the one attached to the hand he’s currently focussed on. Instead, you settle for moving your fingers further into his mouth, outlining his wandering tongue, gliding along the inside of his cheek, just exploring.

It’s not a bad compromise, you think as he moans and flushes a deeper shade of scarlet.

“Well,” you breathe. “Not this good.”

He smiles around you before pulling back, trailing his tongue along the underside of your pinky before finally breaking away. He presses a kiss to the pad of your thumb, then releases your wrists.

“I know you have high standards,” he says, resting his forehead on yours, “but was that acceptable, Professor?”

You tilt your head and pop a kiss on the tip of his nose. “Perfect,” you praise. He giggles softly and you continue. “However, I hope you realise my hand’s now wetter than it was to begin with.”

“O-oh,” he responds, leaning back a little. “I, aha, do you really mind? I… I don’t.”

You purse your lips and let out a ‘hm’ of acknowledgment. Slowly, you slide your arms back around him. You touch one dampened finger to his spine, right between his shoulder blades. “You don’t?”

“Really, I don’t. I just… want you to keep touching me.” He averts his eyes, biting his lip.

You leave the hand tracing his spine where it is, but bring the other around to catch his wrist. “That feeling is quite mutual, Ashe,” you say as you place his hand on your bare thigh, just south of the hem of your skirt.

“Ah,” he answers with a swallow. A crooked smile tugs at your lips as his other hand settles on the side of your hip.

“A little problem-solving exercise for you: what should be this hand’s next move?” There’s a wink in your voice, and you tense your thigh under his touch. “Strategically speaking, of course.”

His face is all serious concentration as his hand migrates north. You slide your free hand back around him and let it drift down to his ass. Humming, you give it a squeeze, which he answers with a gasp and a jolt in his fingers.

“Show your work, Ashe,” you say. As he figures out how to answer, you press light kisses to his neck. Nothing rough or painful, no pressure like before, but enough to present a real distraction indeed.

“I… uh…” he begins, fingers faltering as he reaches the line of your panties. “I think that… that a direct route t-to — ah, Byleth! — to the, umm… to the— the stronghold?”

“Stronghold?” you echo against his skin with a laugh.

“I’m trying!” he protests weakly.

You pat his back. For good measure, you also give his behind another squeeze. “I know. And you’re doing very well. I’d like to offer you some advice.”

“Please do.”

His tone draws another huff of laughter from you. “While a direct attack might be tempting, in this scenario it’s better to do all you can outside the walls to make your incursion easier. Defenses are very, very low, but they could always be lower.”

Ashe stares at you, and for a second you worry you might have broken his brain. Or, perhaps more likely, confused him with the unnecessary metaphors. Slowly, though, he nods, and drags a finger over your undergarments. He keeps going until he reaches a central point above the junction of your legs, then he swipes his thumb in circles.

He’s about half an inch off the mark.

“It’s a bit lower than that, Ashe,” you murmur into his ear. As he mutters an apology and trails closer to the mark, you drape your arms over his shoulders and pull him close. “No need to be sorry. If you’re willing to listen, you’re already leagues ahead of the pack.”

“Anything you say, I’ll do it,” he swears, his breath hot across the fabric of your collar.

Laughing softly, you card a hand through the hair at the back of his skull. “Teacher’s pet,” you tease.

“W-well, I…” he starts, but ends up laughing too. “M-maybe a little.”

You drop one arm back down to his waist so your hand can wander over his back. Earlier, you didn’t give yourself a proper chance. You intend to rectify that now.

“Move your fingers lower,” you instruct. “This isn’t archery, you’re not aiming for the bullseye right away.”

“Mm-hmm.” He’s breathing heavily. Obediently, his fingers probe deeper, lightly grazing along your lips through the soft fabric. When he hits the damp spot you knew was there, his breathing stutters.

“You did that, you know,” you say, hushed enough that it’s nearly a whisper. “Because you’re so good for me.”

He hums in response and drags his fingers back and forth across your underclothes in a way that leaves sparkling trails on the sensitive skin beneath. You sigh against his ear. Absently, you toy with his hair and follow the lines of sinew and bone on his back.

The hand Ashe had on your hip has inched upward, and it pokes under the bottom of your jacket. With your shirt tucked into your skirt, he can’t find the skin to skin contact he seemed to be looking for. You… actually find yourself disappointed by that.

Your hands leave him and without delay his concerned eyes peer into yours, questioning. But you offer a reassuring smile and explain yourself as you go for the jacket’s top button.

“I think it’s time I was rid of this, don’t you?” you say, popping it open.

“Y-yes! Of course,” Ashe stammers. “But, ah…”

Your hands freeze on the second button. “What, any objections?”

“None whatsoever.” He rests his hands on your hips. This, you suspect, is because he doesn’t know what else to do with them. “But didn’t you… you said you, ah, wanted me naked first?”

The question hits you where it counts. You reach for his hair and smooth it behind his ear, the way he normally keeps it when he’s not so preoccupied. Then, wordlessly, you lean back against the wall, folding your arms over your chest and waiting.

“Uh…” he starts after a few seconds. “Did I say something wrong?”

You smirk. “No, not at all. You were right on the money, actually. I was just waiting for you to make it happen.” You hold your elbow in one hand and rest your chin on the other, tilting your head as you pointedly drag your eyes up and down Ashe’s body. He’s a sight; hair disheveled aside from the piece you’d smoothed, cheeks flushed, eyes wide under long fluttering starlight eyelashes. Not to mention his leaking cock poking out of his untied, rumpled pants. “Not that I mind waiting when the view’s this nice.”

Ducking his head, he laughs. “Alright. Let me just…” He steps back and crouches to take care of his boots. His hair falls over his face, and you peer at his exposed back. The bumps of his spine catch your attention, and you feel the urge to carefully run your fingers over every peak and divot. But you stay where you are.

He gasps a little when his bare feet touch the floor. “It’s a little cold,” he says meekly as he stands.

Your eyes fall to his hardened nipples. “Seems that way.”

His blush deepens but he chuckles nonetheless.

“Is it okay? The cold I mean,” you say softly.

“It’s fine. I’m from Faerghus, after all,” he replies in kind. He meets your eyes for a moment, then his hands go to his waistband and he looks away. “So, I guess I should…”

“If you’re too nervous, turn around,” you suggest. “If you want to, of course. If you—”

He cuts you off. “I want to,” he says. He turns in place, his back towards you. You watch as he peels down both pants and smallclothes at once. As he bends, his ass is angled towards you, and you thank whatever celestial power is responsible for letting you experience this (you don’t want to thank Sothis, that would be weird, and with so many cultures and so many gods in the world you’re sure there’s someone, somewhere you can be appropriately grateful to).

When he straightens up again, folding his discarded clothes, you have to remind yourself to stay at the wall. You want to run your hands all over him, sure, but you also want him to come back to you. Ashe puts his clothes down — you guess folded on the middle of the floor is better than thrown in a pile in the middle of the floor — inhales deeply, then turns to face you.

He looks slightly worried. Like he might not be good enough, like you might disapprove. You can’t imagine a universe where that would be true. Smiling, you beckon him closer with a finger.

“Moonlight and nothing else is a good look for you,” you say airily.

He moves in close and touches his hands to your sides. “I’m glad you think so.”

“Mm. I know so.” Arms around his neck, you pull him in close for a kiss, which he eagerly sinks into. He slides a hand to the side of your breast, and when he puts a foot between your own, you can feel his hardness pressing up against your thigh, only your skirt separating your skin.

“I hope you’re not getting anything too hard to explain on my clothes,” you comment, lips against his cheek.

He jerks back. “Aha, sorry,” he says, looking at you through his lashes and smiling bashfully.

You run a hand along his jaw. “I’m teasing, dear,” you assure him, and you watch his smile widen just a tiny bit. You don’t really mean to, it just sort of happens, but your hand stops as it reaches his chin and you just look at him. Though you’ve never put much stock in hypnotism, you’re in something of a trance as you take in the man before you.

Without consciously choosing to, you angle his chin up slightly, the new red marks on display for you along with the fading purple. You reach out and touch one near his pulse point, and you feel his racing heart beat. It’s at odds with how docilely he lets you study him.

You glance at his face — you need to check that his cooperation is born of enthusiasm and not of fear. You know it was, sure, but you also know that can change at any moment.

When you look at him, he smiles. That smile meets his eyes. Good.

“Thinking about something, Professor?”

The hand you have on his neck snakes its way to his shoulder. “I was thinking,” you begin, which is already a Goddess-damned lie on its own, but nonetheless, you’re thinking now and you’re thinking fast, “about where we are.”

“Oh? The Monastery, or the tower itself?”

“The tower,” you answer. “I can’t help but feel that, somewhere this sacred, a good boy like you should be on his knees.”

His breath hitches, and his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. But he doesn’t break eye contact. He stares you down as he sinks unhurriedly to his knees, settling his palms on his thighs. “Like this?” he asks, so close to keeping the waver from his voice. Extending a hand, you push that stubborn section of hair back behind his ear, then keep patting as he leans into it.

“Exactly like that.” When you withdraw your hand, he opens his mouth as if to protest, but when you bring it back to that second jacket button his jaw shuts with a clack. You work the garment open slower than you really want to, but his hungry gaze on you is enough to make you want to drag it out as long as possible. Will he wait patiently for you to tell him to move, to touch you? Or will he get fed up and snap, take the initiative himself? You don’t even have a preference.

You hold the jacket out beside you and let go. It crumples softly on the floor. It’s… almost certainly going to be creased by the time you leave. That’ll be so late, though, that you doubt you’ll have to explain your untidy state of dress to anyone. Ashe’s eyes linger on the discarded clothing for a moment before snapping back to you. He watches you with that same rapt attention as you rid yourself of your shirt, leaving only your breast band on your top half.

“You can do the honours of this one later,” you say, giving the fabric a light tug before reaching out to touch his cheek. He nods, leaning into the contact, and you go on. “For now, I want you to come closer.”

Ashe shuffles forward, stopping only when his knees are level with the toe-boxes of your shoes. He stares up at you, awaiting further instruction.

“I hope you didn’t scrape your knees,” you say as you resume petting his hair, the potential problem of the unforgiving flooring only now occurring to you.

He raises an eyebrow at you. “That’s nothing worth worrying about, Byleth,” he tells you, and you’re faintly surprised by the laughter you detect in his tone. “I’m tougher than that, you know.”

And he’s right. You can’t argue. You’re more aware of his toughness than you’d like to be. “Still, I’d rather you didn’t get hurt.”

He turns his head to the side and inhales before saying, “you and I might not completely agree on that.”

“Amendment,” you return, wetting your lips semi-consciously. “I’d rather you didn’t get hurt for no reason.”

Ashe laughs quietly, and it’s then you notice his hands are curled into fists on his thighs. “Okay. You… you win this round, I guess.”

“Ashe,” you say quietly, touching the pads of two fingers to the underside of his chin and gently, gently tipping his head to look at you more directly. His breathing intensifies, subtly enough that you nearly miss it. “Still okay? Your hands…”

He exhales through his nose, clenching his fists tighter. “Ask me to touch you, Byleth,” he says. “Please.”

Your hand leaves his chin to thumb over his cheekbone, and he keeps his head tilted back.

“Now, why would I do that?” you joke.

“Byleth.” It’s halfway between a whine and a growl.

Your fingers dance over the shell of his ear. “Getting impatient, are we?”

“Yes.”

You can’t help but chuckle. Despite himself, he smiles too.

“Well, if I must,” you sigh with all the faux drama you can muster. You hitch your skirt up at the waist. “You can get closer, can’t you?”

He scooches as close as he can, nestling one leg between your feet. “I want to touch you, Byl— uh, m-my lady.”

You blink, and stop moving your hand (which you realise has found its way to his hair again. Goddess, you can’t stop touching his hair). “My lady, is it?”

“I— I won’t say it again if you think it’s silly!” he rushes out. “I just— I thought— seeing as I’m, ah, on my knees for you in a h-holy place, that maybe I should, um, be as… respectful as possible? To you in particular?”

You hum in thought for a moment. “For me ‘in particular’? So, what you’re saying is you’re offering yourself up on my altar, more or less?”

He gulps but nods. “M-more or less. Uh, more ‘more’ than ‘less’, though, hah…”

“In that case,” you intone, “your lady not only accepts your offering, but also wants you to know she finds it very attractive, so you should worry less and touch her more.”

His lips part for a small intake of breath, then he surges forward to rain kisses on your thigh. You roll your skirt up further, tucking pieces of it into its own waistband so it’ll stay out of the way. You want as clear a view as possible. Hands winding through his hair, you pull him closer against you. His hands run up the outsides of your legs. You inhale faster when the tips of his fingers dip underneath the material of your smallclothes, but after a fleeting second he slides them back out and the fabric snaps back to your skin.

“Tease,” you breathe.

He chuckles, and the vibrations of his laugh in the crook of your thigh pull a sigh from you. “What can I say? I have a good teacher.”

He moves his fingers up again. With his left hand he strokes the soft part of your flesh, just under where he’s kissing. His right hand, however, trails along the crease between your leg and your hip. Gliding over your panties, he finds your heat and runs his fingers back and forth across it, lightly, lightly, too lightly.

“Ashe,” you say, pulling his head back to see his face, “more.”

“Of course,” he purrs, ducking back in to give your inner thigh one last kiss before pressing his nose into the fabric of your underpants and inhaling deeply.

“Shit,” you hiss. “Ashe, you’re… wow.” Too quickly, he draws back, but you don’t have time to protest before he drags his thumb up to your clit. Or rather, the general area thereof.

“Am I on the right track?” he asks with a sheepish smile, looking more innocent than a naked erect man on his knees before you has any right to.

“Go lower,” you instruct, breathing a ‘yes’ when he hits his target. Studying your face intently, he massages his thumb in tiny circles. He drinks in your every reaction, trying to figure out what he did to elicit every twitch, every gasp and every soft moan. The blush on his cheeks, you realise, really brings out the green of his eyes.

“You look so beautiful like that,” you pant.

He blushes further. “I’ll have to take your word for it.” He withdraws his hand even as you whine at the loss and hooks his fingers into your panties. “Um… may I?”

“I insist,” is your answer. It comes less teasing than you were going for, ending up closer to earnest. 

As he drags the garment down, he bites his lip. When he gets it to your ankles you helpfully step out of it. He gazes at your face before even glancing at what he’s revealed.

“Move closer,” you say, and he wiggles forward, slotting one knee between your feet.

“Anything else, my lady?” His voice is soft and low, and his hot breath on you ties your stomach in wonderful knots.

“Yes, actually,” you answer as you steady one hand on his shoulder, the other in the wall behind you. “Hold still.” Careful to keep your balance, you raise your leg and hook your knee over his shoulder.

Ashe stares at you — not at your face — enraptured. “Byleth…”

“I thought it was ‘my lady’,” you say, and you realise it’s hard to sound flippant or even witty with the way his breath makes your insides flutter.

He licks his lips, but you wish he was licking yours. “What would you have me do, my lady?”

Your breath leaves you in a single puff. “Show me how you worship,” you rasp, and winding your fingers through his soft hair you pull him forward.

First he sucks your inner lips into his mouth, tonguing around their longest points and just barely teasing at your entrance. The groan that escapes you seems so loud in the quiet tower.

“Ashe,” you whine, “higher.” He hums something in response, and you don’t know what he means by it but Goddess it thrums through you. He braces a hand on your thigh — the one that’s not draped over your shoulder — and suckles harder as he redirects his attention to your clit. His tongue flicks up and down over it, and somewhere in the back if your mind, a barely-present rational part of you is pretty impressed with his accuracy.

You cry out, and without meaning to, you take your hand from his shoulder and slide it up your torso until it meets your breast, which you knead like it’ll relieve even a little of the rapidly building pressure inside of you. Ashe moans against you at the sight. His other hand finds purchase low on your hip, gripping at the soft flesh.

Foggily, you realise he’s still moving his tongue in exactly the same manner.

“Ashe, Ashe,” you pant, trying to get the words out through stilted breaths and pleasantly warm cheeks. “Your tongue… move it more.”

He makes a noise of acknowledgment that in turn draws the tiniest mewl of pleasure from you, then circles his tongue around your clit. It’s better, but…

“Pretend like… you’re writing,” you suggest. “With your tongue. Letters.”

He nods his head and hums again, and oh you’re glad he listens. You keen, tilting your hips against his face. You only notice you’ve tightened your grip on his hair when he winces. Instantly, you let you fingers go loose again. He makes a noise, sudden and sharp and pointed enough to make you look down at him, and when he has your eyes on him he exaggeratedly draws his brows together, the whole while keeping you in his mouth and laving at you.

You… think you get the message. Your fist clenches and he moans, sending shocks and sparks and you don’t know, probably straight-up magic through your system. He pushes his face harder against you, burying his nose in your skin, and you briefly wonder if he’s doing alright in terms of oxygen but ultimately decide to leave worrying about breathing up to him this time.

It occurs to you that you shouldn’t be surprised by his reaction to your roughness. Every time you’ve thought you might’ve gone too far, been too harsh, he’s all but begged you to continue. Perhaps you should put more trust in that than your own worries and preconceptions.

You just don’t want to hurt him. Like, in a bad way. Fondness blooms in your chest almost as intensely as the heat in your belly.

He shifts his shoulder under your leg and reflexively, your hand clutches at the wall for purchase it doesn’t really find. You’re okay, though. You don’t lose your balance. Still, Ashe blinks up at you, eyes wide with concern.

“Keep going,” you breathe, nudging his back with your heel. He lets out a surprised sound, so you curl your leg to press him closer against you. He moans.

“Ashe,” you say, and his eyes are on you, attentive as ever. It’s truly something to behold, his pretty face blushing between your thighs, pink lips flush against you, slight movement betraying the actions of his still-working tongue as he looks at you like you’re the only thing to ever exist.

“Fingers,” you remember out loud. “I want your fingers.”

“Mmm,” he replies, dragging the noise out and pulling at your clitoral hood with his lips. You groan. It comes out shaky, and you don’t care, you just close your eyes and tilt your head to the ceiling, to the unseen stars above and whatever lies beyond them as his calloused archer’s fingers drag their way across your buttocks.

“Wait,” you pant. Your eyes snap back to his, and when he obediently freezes you involuntarily whimper. “Wet them first.”

The sound when he takes his mouth from you is wet, quiet, and almost drowned out by your whimper.

“Sorry,” he says. His voice is ragged.

You let out a small, incredulous laugh. “Apologising is the last thing you should be doing.”

“Alright,” he acquiesces, smiling shyly at you before averting his eyes and sticking two fingers in his mouth.

“Look at me,” you tell him, and he does without delay. “Don’t get shy on me now.” You feel like your voice might fall apart at any moment, breathy and unfamiliar as it is. “You’ve been so good for me, I miss you already. You don’t need to hide.”

He makes a sound that’s a perfect mix between a whine and a moan around his own fingers, and the hand on your thigh holds tighter, and you just can’t take his absence any longer, so you place your fingers at the hood of your clitoris and rub in slow circles. He stares like it’s the most mystical thing he’s ever laid eyes on.

Ashe takes his fingers from his mouth and slides his hand over yours, teasing at your entrance. “Is this…?” he starts.

“Yes,” you breathe. “Perfect. You’re perfect. So beautiful.”

“It feels blasphemous to hear you saying that to me,” he says in a small voice. “Really, it should be the other way around.”

You want to argue, but Goddess you want his mouth back. “Ashe,” you plead, drawing your hand out of his way.

He moves close — so close! — and stills. “Please… please touch me,” he murmurs before taking you back into his mouth and working a finger inside you.

Arching into the sensation, you moan. It takes you a moment to process what he asked, and another moment still to remember how to use your hands. You stroke his cheek with a hand still damp with your slick, and he closes his eyes and keens.

Vaguely, you notice the absence of a hand squeezing your thigh. You open your eyes — when had they slipped closed? — to see him pumping his cock. It’s a pretty sight, one you’d like to etch into your long-term memory, but a faraway voice in your head tells you to stop him, and you try to figure out why…

Oh, right.

“Ashe,” you croak, and wow your voice is wrecked, but that is not the point. “Don’t… don’t finish.” You’re panting and it’s taking all the willpower you can summon not to grab his face and buck against it, but you have to get these words out. “If you… want me the way I want you… you probably don’t want to, ah, come right now…”

He inhales sharply against you and releases his dick like it burned him. You’d probably laugh if you weren’t teetering so close to the edge. Your heel pushes harder into his back, and your fingers are pulling at his hair and you’re not even sure which sounds you’re making and what’s just the building white noise in your head any more.

“Ashe,” you whine. By some miracle, that gets the exact right message across, because he works in a second finger and curls them both inside you. You keen and push against him, chanting ‘yes’ like a prayer. He thrusts his fingers in and out of you, curling and uncurling in a pattern you can’t quite predict, and when he drags them against a little patch of nerves at the same time he sucks down on you hard—

You come with his name on your lips and silver hair in your fists.

Your eyes squeeze shut as he guides you through the peak. It feels like you’re being dragged along through the waves, immobilised but pulled steadily forward by a thread as thin as a spider’s web but strong enough to carry you through.

“Stop, stop,” you pant when it all becomes too much. His fingers slip out of you with an obscenely wet sound, and when his mouth leaves you you feel cold, exposed to the air. But you can’t really do much about it, panting against the wall as you are.

You kneel down to Ashe’s level, sitting on your own calves.

“Was it— mmph!” His question is cut off by your lips on his. Your tongue swipes at his lips, and when he lets you in you can taste yourself.

“Yeah,” you say when you draw back, breathless once more. “It was. Where’s… ah.”

Hands braced on your thighs, you push yourself to stand again and fetch his coat from where it had fallen. Ashe turns to face you as you lay it out on the floor.

“Sorry,” you say, beckoning him over. “I’d use mine, but it’s a little small. I’ll take care of washing it, if you’d like.”

“No, no! That’s not necessary,” he insists. “How— however, if you do want to, uh, make it up to me…” He kneels behind where you sit on the coat. You turn your head to watch him over your shoulder, but before you can ask what he’s doing the question is answered by his hands at your breastband.

“Oh,” you say as you realise. “Go ahead. You’re an easy one to please, aren’t you?”

Dexterous fingers make short work of the tie at your back. The material falls loosely around you, atop the waistband of your skirt.

“I’d certainly hate to ask too much,” Ashe says. A second passes before he shuffles closer, sliding his arms around your torso and pressing light kisses to your back and shoulders.

You place one hand on his arm. The other reaches back, grasping for whatever you can touch. It ends up on his mid thigh.

“Don’t worry about me for now,” he says softly. “I don’t think I could be happier if I tried.”

“And how much gold would you stake on that?” you retort. Nonetheless, you cease your explorations.

Ashe chuckles. “You’re not a woman I’d make a habit of betting against.”

“You always have been a clever one.”

He nuzzles against your neck, laughing once again. “You were beautiful, you know. Against the wall just now. I’ve, ah… I’ve imagined it before,” he confesses, “how you might look. Nothing I pictured came close to the real thing.”

Twisting your head back, you kiss his cheek. “I could stand to hear a lot more about what you’ve imagined, Ashe,” you tell him. “However, as lovely as this is, I have plans. If you’re willing to be a part of them, that is.”

When you free yourself from his tender grasp and face him, he’s blushing. “I did tell you I’d do anything you want.”

“And that’s not something I’ll soon forget, believe me.” You cup his cheek briefly. “What I want is to keep checking that you like the way things are going.”

He scratches absently at the back of his neck. “I can’t help but feel we could easily talk ourselves in circles like this.”

“I can live with that,” you say with a smile. “Maybe you should sit down.”

Mutely, Ashe nods, and shifts his weight off of his shins. When he crosses his legs and sits, your eyes are drawn to his knees of all things. They’re red and raw. It’s hard to tell but you have a feeling they’re scraped, if only a little.

“It’s fine,” Ashe assures you as you wince. He reaches for you, but his hand hangs in the air when he notices your own hands going to his knees. You thumb over the roughly treated skin, healing magic pulsing through your fingers. It isn’t much, but it should be enough to take the edge off the sting.

He lets out a little exhale. “Ah. Thank you.”

You smile. Then, slowly enough that he can stop you if he changes his mind at the last moment, you climb onto his lap. Your skirt has mostly fallen from where you tucked it up under itself, but you only have to fiddle with it a little to drag it out of the way. As you trace the back of your knuckles down his stomach, his breathing hitches. 

“Ready?” you ask him.

“More than ready,” Ashe replies, and his voice is quiet, but all sincerity, no uncertainty.

He gasps when you touch his hardness, and you lift to hips to line him up with your entrance. Slowly, you sink onto him.

Ashe’s eyes squeeze shut when just the head of his cock is inside. “Fuck,” he hisses. His breaths turn deep as his fingers dig into the flesh of your hips.

“I’ve never heard you swear before,” you remark in hushed tones, holding back the laugh that’s bubbling up because you’re not sure how he’d take it.

“Please, just,” he begs, stumbling over his words as you clench around his tip, “please keep moving.”

In answer, you sink down lower, until you sheathe him to the hilt.

“Goddess,” he breathes. His forehead falls against yours, and you give him a moment to catch his breath before you swivel your hips up and down, up and down. He inhales sharply, and your own breathing deepens too, the fullness and the friction warming you to your core.

“Touch me, Ashe,” you say, wrapping your arms around his neck.

“W-where?” he asks, one hand already kneading your breast.

“I don’t know,” you pant, before adding “everywhere.”

He chuckles, though it’s a shaky, halting thing, and you can feel his breath hot against your neck. “E-everywhere see— seems like quite a task, Byleth, but — ah! — f-for you, I’ll try.”

“Of course you will,” you whisper into his ear. You card your fingers through the hair at the back of his skull as he snakes a hand under your skirt. When his fingers reach your folds you bite down on the tender part of his ear lobe. “Good boy,” you breathe, relishing in the way he gasps and reflexively moves against you, pushing deeper.

“A-ah, wait, wait,” Ashe says. You pull back immediately.

“Not good?” you ask.

“No, no, not that! D-definitely not that,” he answers in a rush. “Just… if you leave a mark there, I won’t be able to hide it.”

“I understand.” You kiss your way lower, until your lips find the base of his neck. “Here, then?”

“Please.”

You’re teasingly gentle, placing kisses and licks soft as the touch of butterfly wings to his skin until he groans, and then only sucking gently despite the way his thumb circles your clit.

“Byleth,” he whines. “Please.”

“You sound so pretty when you beg,” you murmur, and you don’t know whether he’s moaning from what you said, from the way you finally press your teeth into his skin, or from the way you grind down, walls clenching against him. What you do know is you want him to make that sound again. And again, and again.

“I-I’ll keep begging, if that’s what you want,” he stammers between ragged breaths, looking up at you with shining eyes. You have to momentarily abandon his neck to maintain eye contact, and he winces, but it seems to be what he wants.

Your hands trace along his arms, down his sides, just absently wandering while you steadily move your hips, each rocking movement deliberate and pointed like the punctuation of its own sentence. “I wouldn’t say no, but what would you beg for?”

“I…” he begins, but you knock the breath from his lungs with a well-timed clench. “I-I’d beg for…” He looks into your eyes for a moment, deeply, like he’s searching for something, but you can’t help him to find it if you don’t know what it is. Before you can ask what he’s thinking about, he shakes his head and lets out a small laugh. “Forget it.”

“If you want,” you say lightly as your hand cups his ass. “You know, I’m not — mm — the only one who’s allowed to move.”

“O-oh,” Ashe says, and then he’s moving his hips along with yours, trying to follow your lead.

You wind the hand that isn’t on his behind around his waist, spreading it flat on his back and pulling his upper half closer. His hand drops from your breast to your thigh, he keeps the hand under your skirt firmly in place, a decision for which you’re grateful. Ashe leans in and catches your lips in a firm kiss, stroking your thigh as he pushes into you. You moan into his lips, running your fingernails along his back, which pulls a moan from him in turn. 

“Ashe,” you say, turning your head just enough to free your lips, “your thumb— oh.” You let out a shaky breath as he picks up what you’re getting at before you can even finish suggesting it. His thumb traces patterns atop your clit, gliding quickly and easily in the slick and the heat.

“Like letters,” he pants. “Right?”

“Ah— right,” you say. “Keep going. Exactly like that.” And you turn your head back to kiss him again.

Ashe must be paying close attention to your reactions. Whenever his ministrations tear a notable response from you — a shudder, a moan, clenched teeth, clenched fingers, clenched walls — he repeats it. Not immediately, but soon enough, and before you know it he’s built up a little repertoire of ways to move his thumb that just work for you. The tension balls up inside you, fit to burst. Your fingernails drag down his flank, and the breathy noise that tumbles from him has you teetering on the edge, but not quite tumbling over.

“I must be the luckiest man in Fodlan,” he says, “to be able to touch you like this.” His hand clenches tightly to your thigh as he thrusts, hard and deliberate.

And you tumble.

You hug him close as you ride your orgasm through. Floating, you pant softly against his chest. Before the friction can turn from pleasure to pain, you pull his hand from under your skirt. He rests it on your other thigh. As you come back to yourself, you realise he’s slowed down, and before you know it he’s stilled within you.

“You don’t have to stop,” you say, opening your eyes to look up at him. His eyes are wide, and he’s so flushed, and you think it must be an enormous effort not to keep going.

“O-oh, if— if you’re sure?” he says shakily. “I won’t last long, I might…”

“What, come inside?”

He nods.

“There are teas for that,” you tell him, tracing your fingers up his spine. “I really don’t mind. Please, Ashe. You’ve been so good. It’s your turn to feel good.”

Nodding again, his hips snap up to meet yours.

“Good, Ashe, good,” you breathe against his ear. “Don’t try to go slow for my sake. Do what feels good.”

Obligingly, he picks up the pace, snaking his arms around you and holding you firmer. You match his rhythm with your hips as best you can.

“Ashe, is there anything I can do to make you feel good?” you ask, knowing the answer pretty well already as you rake one finger down the back of his neck.

“P-please,” he grunts, “my… my hair — nngh! — ah, nails… please…”

You wind a hand into his hair and grip tightly, while scratching the nails of your other hand down his back. The effect is immediate — his arms constrict so tightly around you that it’s almost painful, and he moans, thrusting fast and hard, seemingly throwing any sense of rhythm to the wind.

You pull harder on his hair, relishing in the halting ‘ah!’ he releases. “Did I ever tell you you make the prettiest sounds?” you ask before latching onto his neck and sucking.

His grip on you tightens further still and he comes with a strangled cry. You loosen the hand in his hair, stroking it as he jerks against you. Closing your eyes, you listen to his ragged breathing like it’s a song written just for you. As his arms loosen around you — not much, just enough that you can breathe easy again — you open your eyes again to find him gazing at you, eyes bleary and fond. You open your mouth to speak, but he kisses you, whatever you were going to say lost to the sands of time.

You feel a drip, and you realise you’re both still sitting on Ashe’s coat.

“Oh, shit,” you say, and he breaks away, concerned.

“What is it?”

“I didn’t think to bring anything to clean up with. That, and I don’t want to make more of a mess,” you say, tapping his coat.

Ashe’s eyes widen with comprehension. “Oh! Of course. Um, I have a handkerchief… somewhere.”

“That’ll work,” you say. “But, uh, first,” and you slowly pull yourself off of him. His breath chokes up, and you feel slightly empty at the loss. The moment you’re off him, his hands go to the pockets of the coat beneath the two of you.

“A-ha,” he says with a soft smile as he retrieves a small bit of cloth. You thank him as you take it, and he averts your eyes to give you privacy as you step off the coat and stand to clean yourself off.

“I’ll, uh, definitely take care of laundering this one, at least,” you say.

He laughs. “I won’t stop you there.”

Your eyes land on your shirt, rumpled on the ground, and you realise that oh, you actually have to get dressed again, don’t you? With a small sigh, you set about gathering up your scattered clothes.

“Hm?” says Ashe, turning at your sigh. “Oh, right.”

“If we ever want to leave this tower, we’ll probably have to make ourselves decent,” you say lightly, pulling your outfit back on bit by bit.

He hums, doing the same. “And if we don’t want to leave the tower?”

“You raise a good point. We’d probably get hungry pretty quickly, though.”

“That’s probably true, but I have to admit, I’m still tempted.”

You banter back and forth until you’re both fully dressed, noticeably rumpled, but passable. You figure it’s not likely that anyone would even notice the wrinkles in your clothing this late at night, let alone bother you about it. After smoothing your hair out to the general vicinity of ‘good enough’, you reach out and hook Ashe’s hair behind his ear. Even after everything you just did, he blushes.

“Shall we go?” you ask, letting your hand fall to your side.

“Ah, before we do,” he says quietly.

“Mm?”

He looks into your eyes, suddenly unsure, and you can’t imagine why. “Can I kiss you again, before we go?”

You smile crookedly at him. “Such a gentleman, aren’t you?” you tease. “Of course.”

Ashe steps forward, closing the distance between you, and slides a hand behind your head, the other on your cheek as he presses his lips against yours, soft and sweet. He doesn’t try to deepen the kiss, doesn’t bite at your lip or probe with his tongue or even let his hands wander. So you don’t do any of that either. And then it’s over, and he steps back and looks at you with a soft, almost sad smile. Huh.

“Everything okay, Ashe?” you ask, catching his arm as he moves to back away further.

“I…” he begins, then he sighs and shakes his head.

“It’s been a long few days, right?” you guess.

He nods. “Something like that. We… really should be going, shouldn’t we?”

“Probably,” you agree, and together you descend the stairs of the Goddess Tower.

Ashe surprises you when, almost as soon as you’re out of the tower, he excuses himself to spend some time in the Cathedral.

“Not to repent what we just did, I should hope,” you joke, but actually, you’re kind of serious, so you’re not sure it’s much of a joke at all.

“Of course not,” he assures you. “I just need a little time on my own to think before I head back. Don’t, ah,” he chews on his lip for a moment, “don’t take this as me regretting anything. Really. I just…” He furrows his brow.

“I won’t pry,” you tell him. “You don’t need to explain yourself to me if you don’t want to.”

He sighs, visibly relieved. “Thank you. I just don’t want you to think that I feel wrongly about this, or anything. Don’t, ah, hesitate before asking anything of me— oh, that sounded a little more suggestive than I intended…”

You both laugh.

“Goddess forbid you say anything suggestive,” you say with a smile, nudging him playfully with your elbow.

He hums, looking past you to the Goddess Tower. “I think the Goddess might forbid some things I’ve done tonight already,” he says. His eyes fall back to you. “And, ah, probably some of the things I think, too.”

“Ooh, now that’s intriguing,” you say with a wink.

“I’m sure,” he says, looking away and letting his eyes fall on the locked side-door of the Cathedral.

“I’ll let you get to it,” you say, patting his arm. “Have a good night, Ashe.”

“You too, Byleth. I… good night.”

You smile, then turn away, walking a few steps before calling, “sweet dreams,” with a wave over your shoulder.

In the few minutes it takes you to make your way back to the dorms, you pass fewer people than you could count on one hand, and not a single one of them has anything to say about your state of dress. They barely acknowledge your existence, save for the two soldiers who greet you with a nod, neither slowing their step. By the time you enter your room, exhaustion has set into your bones, and you barely manage to tear off your uniform and throw on some sleep clothes before falling into bed.

As you drift towards sleep, the eyes you see aren’t Ferdinand von Aegir’s. They’re jade green.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> slightly shorter chapter this time! had to cut what i intended to post into two, because a twenty-ish thousand word chapter is just a tad unwieldy. hope you enjoy it nonetheless!

It’s easier than you would’ve imagined to grow used to waking up with Ashe in your arms. In the weeks since the Bridge of Myrddin — since the Goddess Tower — you’ve stayed over in each other’s rooms more than a handful of times. It isn’t an every-day occurrence, more ‘not’ than ‘often’ as it stands. But you’ve greeted enough mornings with your hand in his hair and his breath on your skin that it doesn’t even feel weird.

It’s about even, the tally of which of you wakes up first. Today, as the morning light filters in through your windows and plays across Ashe’s freckles, it’s you. You trace the outline of his slightly parted lips with your eyes. You’d like to do so with your thumb, but then he might stir and the spell would be broken, so you content yourself with looking for now.

In times like these, he’s so peaceful. He has a lot of worries nagging at him during the day — you all do, really. But sleeping, you get to see his face with all those cares washed away, no knotted brows or downturned lips. You think he deserves to feel as content as he looks right now a whole lot more. Sometimes it’s easy to forget that he’s a highly trained soldier, a man who’s seen and survived too many battles to remember and come out the other side just as determined to fight for those who can’t fight for themselves. A knight in all but name.

You do touch him now, affectionately brushing the back of your hand against his cheekbone. His responding exhale is deeper and slower than his breathing had been a moment ago, so you know he’s awake.

“Not a bad way to wake up,” he murmurs before his eyes flutter open.

“Good morning,” you say softly as he blinks away the haze of sleep.

“Mm, it is,” he smiles. He brings a hand up and cups it over yours on his face, then pulls your hand to his lips to dust your knuckles with kisses. “Good morning.”

You don’t know what time it is other than ‘early’. You don’t have to get to training with Lysithea until mid-morning, and if you recall correctly, Ashe doesn’t have to meet Hilda to watch the skies until noon. That doesn’t mean you can stay under the covers forever — Ashe has made a habit of leaving early, before anyone’s likely to notice him darting two doors down, and when it’s you staying over in his dorm you tend to emulate that out of courtesy. You’ve not really discussed it (and perhaps you should, but it’s working alright so far) but you’re under the impression he’d prefer to keep your… whatever-it-is under wraps. Still, though, maybe you can sneak a few more minutes before he goes.

Shuffling close enough that your chests touch, you press your lips to his, an action enthusiastically reciprocated. Neither of you bothered to put on sleep clothes above the waist last night and you welcome the skin to skin contact. You’re even gladder of it as his hand skates up your ribs and skims your breast.

“I sometimes…” he starts, touching his forehead to yours. You look into his eyes, which don’t meet yours, right there but distant still.

“Sometimes?” you prompt.

He hums, exhaling through his nose. “Often,” he corrects himself. “I often feel like… like I’m stealing these moments, like they don’t belong to me, not really.”

Rather than saying anything, you’d prefer to let him finish his thoughts in his own time. So you stay quiet, rubbing your thumb gently against the back of his hand.

Eventually, he sighs. “It’s as if I’ve, I don’t know, pulled off some grand deception and soon enough, I’ll be found out. I… I hate feeling like I’m lying.”

“Well, are you?”

“Hm?” His eyes flick to yours.

“Are you lying?” you ask, deliberately keeping your tone light. “I have to warn you, I’ll be more than a little irritated if you’re actually an Imperial spy.”

“N-no! Nothing like that,” he says, and he must catch your tone because he chuckles softly. “Only, I feel like…”

Though you intend to wait for him to continue again, it seems the words just aren’t coming to him.

“Is this anything like when you told me you didn’t feel you deserved to be a part of the Academy?” you ask him.

He purses his lips in thought for a moment. “I… yes. In… in many ways, actually. But, ah, not entirely?”

“Well, I’m far from the expert,” you say as you trace the shell of his ear with your index finger, “but I’ve been told that people are allowed to have feelings.”

“Oh, that can’t be true.” Despite the uncertain shake to his voice, he smirks.

“It came as a surprise to me, too. But really, Ashe. You don’t need to doubt yourself, even if you do anyway. Are you worried in a general sense, or does it have more to do with what we’ve been doing?”

“Ah, both,” he says. It sounds more like a question than an answer. “But… more the latter, I think.”

Your hand finds its way to his hair. “As far as the former goes, you’re just as capable as anyone else, and you deserve your place here. I don’t want you to forget that. And the latter…” Trailing off, you drop a kiss to his cheek, just in front of his ear. “Are you saying my judgment is that bad?”

“What? No, I wouldn’t…” he starts, but something stops him. “I, uh… to be honest, I can’t help but question your taste, sometimes.”

You draw back, eyebrows raised, and look him up and down. “No,” you say decisively, “I think my taste is excellent.”

You close in and kiss him again, and while you can’t see it when you close your eyes, you feel his cheeks heat up as he laughs. He takes your chin between his thumb and a crooked finger and you let him lead you to his mouth.

“Whatever you say,” he breathes against you, then you’re kissing once again. Whatever’s bothering him falls by the wayside for now. Of course, you’re sure it’s still there, pushed somewhere out of the light in the back of his mind. If it nags at him enough to bring it up, it won’t be defeated by a few reassurances. But the way you see it, if he’s feeling a little better for now, then that’s a minor victory you’ll be happy to take.

Ashe plants a line of kisses down your neck. “I should probably head out,” he mumbles.

“Oh, of course,” you reply in kind, holding him against your chest as he ambles his way down your body.

The puff of air he laughs out is cold on just-kissed skin. His mouth trails down to your breast, and without hesitation he flicks your nipple with his tongue, drawing a quiet hiss out of you. You feel him smile against you as he latches on and whirls his tongue around the sensitive nub. Not to leave your other nipple neglected, he lightly runs his finger across it. You gasp, and the vibration of his answering chuckle runs through you.

“I could let you do that forever,” you muse, running your fingers over the bump of the vertebra at the base of his neck.

He hums slowly before moving off you just far enough to speak. “Be careful what you wish for, Professor.”

You laugh, even though the sincerity in his eyes tells you it’s only half a joke. You’re glad he agrees. “I’m not feeling particularly careful right now, Ashe.” With a sigh, you let your head fall back on the pillow with a fwump.

Ashe swallows. “Is that so,” he says, his voice low.

“You sound like you just accepted a duel,” you observe with a grin playing at your mouth.

He shifts as he laughs, and you look up to see his arms crossed over your abdomen. He smiles up at you, his chin resting on his arms. “Any duel with you is a duel I’ll lose before it starts,” he says. “Not that that’s a bad thing! I don’t really mind losing, not when it means I get to watch you win.” He pauses for a short breath. “I don’t mind losing when it’s you I’m losing to.”

You only realise it when Ashe giggles at you, but your mouth drops open without your say-so. “All that reading has clearly done you some good, Ashe,” you say, eyebrows raised.

“You’re right about that,” he says. He breaks eye contact briefly as he wets his lips. “It’s helped me grow into who I am today, and I bet I could babble on about that for a long time, but… there’s, um, other things I’d rather use my mouth for right now.”

Reaching to run a hand over the muscle of his shoulder, then down along his bicep, you say, “I can’t imagine what you mean. Better show me.”

He unfolds his arms, propping them up either side of you. “Can do, ma’am,” he says, and he even throws in a wink. You can’t help the snort of laughter that surges forth.

“You’re cute, did you know that?”

Ashe reddens, looking vaguely embarrassed but not displeased. “Not, uh, not really what I was going for, but I’ll take it.” He shuffles down, taking the already displaced blanket with him until he can hook his fingers into your sleep pants, and when you raise your hips he pulls them and your panties off at once.

“Wonder what else you’ll take,” you murmur as he kneels between your legs. He stops what he’s doing, then looks at you flatly as if he has any right to talk about your punmanship. For a heartbeat, you return the stare, then you fall laughing back to the pillows. Pretty soon, he’s laughing too.

“I like your smile,” he says simply, voice quiet as he lowers his face to your exposed folds.

“The feeling’s mutual,” you return easily, gazing up at the ceiling.

The air of his sighing exhale makes you squirm. “I mean it, though.” His voice is soft and sweet as he spreads you with his fingers. “You don’t smile so easily when we’re not… ah, I mean, in other situations. I… really like that I get to put that look on your face.”

“Ashe,” you breathe as gently, he slips a single finger inside. “You’re— you’re sweet.”

“That’s a good thing,” he mumbles against the delicate skin where your thigh meets your groin. “After all, you did tell me you liked sweets. And I… oh, I can’t think of anything witty to say about taste that doesn’t sound unbearably bad, so…” And he sweeps his tongue into your outer lips, circling your clit but not quite touching it.

“Ah, I think I can forgive you,” you breathe. Your hands search for purchase on the sheets of their own accord.

Ashe hums. “So merciful.”

“When I — mmh — want to be.” You close your eyes. Ashe hums as he finally suckles on your clit, sliding another finger inside you, and your back arches as you reflexively cant your hips in his direction. His free hand holds fast to your thigh, enough pressure to dig into the flesh, but not enough to bruise, nor even to hurt. It grounds you, the dull, firm press of his grip a contrast to the way he moves between your legs.

It’s when he drags the flat of his tongue across your most sensitive point that you peak, breathing heavily and not quite forming his name. When you next open your eyes you find him watching you. Propping himself up on his elbows, he leans over your body to catch your lips in his.

“I really should go now,” he says, but as he pulls back, you catch him by the wrist.

“And how would that be fair?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Ashe insists unconvincingly.

Raising your eyebrows, you look pointedly at his erection (which looks pointedly right back at you. You decide not to voice this thought).

“Hey,” he scolds, barely holding a pasted-on frown in place as he tips your face to look up. “My eyes are up here.”

You feel your lip quirk. “Yes, but as pretty as they are, they’re not crying out for attention right this second.”

“You don’t need to do anything for me right this second. It’s fine, really.” He shakes his head, chuckling. “I didn’t, uh, do that because I expected something in return, you know.”

Exaggeratedly, you pout. “I didn’t realise returning the favour was too transactional for you.”

“Ha, Byleth, come on—”

“No, no, no, I understand completely now. My eyes have been opened,” you say imperiously, gentle hands on his hips in stark opposition to the drama of your tone. He lets you guide him to sit on your abdomen, his wyvern-rider thighs at your sides caging you in.

Ashe bites his lip. What’s atypical about this is the action isn’t borne of nerves, nor of self-consciousness. He’s trying to keep himself from laughing. “Oh? Have they now?”

“Indeed,” you say. “But still, I think we can reach an… agreeable conclusion. If it’s my touch you so spurn—”

“By—”

“Sh! My turn!”

He holds his hand to his mouth as he giggles. “How rude of me. Apologies.”

Though you inject as much theatre into your tone as you can, you wink. “If it’s my touch you so spurn, then I must ask you to use your own.”

Ashe blinks, laughter still plain on his face as he processes what you just suggested. Closely as you watch him, you’re able to witness the exact moment he figures it out.

“O-oh!” he exclaims. “I, ah, um? I’m not sure why you’d, ah, want me to… do that?”

“What, you don’t know why I’d like to watch the beautiful man I’m currently sleeping with bring himself off on top of me? Why I’d want to watch his face as he works himself closer and closer?” you ask flatly. Humming, you bring a finger to your pursed lips and furrow your brow. “Now that you mention it, it is a bit of a mystery.”

He exhales. When he bites his lip this time, it leans closer to self-consciousness than before. You run your hand along the muscles of his thigh.

“Of course, you don’t have to,” you remind him softly. “If you really would rather leave, that’s always okay. You know that.”

“No, no, I know that. It just… strikes me as a little strange, is all.”

“Oh, so you wouldn’t see the appeal in watching me?” Languidly, you let one hand fall from his leg to your stomach, tracing a simple line up your sternum as you push your breasts together with your upper arms.

Red as a carnation, he splutters. “I— that’s— that’s different! You’re different! You—”

You silence him with a look. Bringing a hand to the flat of his stomach, you touch his skin lightly. Muscles twitch and he gasps lightly. “I want to see you,” you say, “but only if you want it too. If you say no, I’ll drop it now. But I don’t want you thinking you’re inadequate. Maybe one day you’ll believe me.” With a shrug, you withdraw your hands. “It’s your call, Ashe.”

Eyes distant, he worries at his lip as he mulls it over. “I’m sorry I can’t take it to heart,” he says, gaze still far away. “You keep saying all these nice things, and it must seem like I’m ignoring them, but I promise you, I’m not. They just…” his eyes meet yours, “don’t ring quite true in my ears.”

“There’s no need to apologise,” you assure him.

Quietly, with a swallow, he nods. “Can I… can I ask one more thing?”

“Of course.”

His tongue darts out to wet his lips. “Do I have to keep my hands to myself, P-Professor?” When his hand heads to his groin you can feel your eyes widen. “Or do I have permission to touch you?”

Your eyes track the movement of his fingers as a hawk follows a mouse, and you find yourself hissing out an impatient breath when he stops at the thatch of silvery curls. “You don’t feel pressured?” you check. “You’re not just doing this because I want it?”

He gives a small shake of his head, and though his answering voice is quiet, it’s sincere. “No. I want to. My only worry is I might, ah, disappoint you.”

“You won’t,” you promise. Then, firmer, and with an air of authority honed by school and war, you respond to what he asked in the first place. “In that case, I suppose you may. You’ve been so good, I can’t pretend you haven’t earned it.”

You cross your arms behind your head with theatrical nonchalance as he lets out a shaky breath and wraps those long, dextrous fingers around his length. As you settle into your new position, you arch your upper back just so, emphasising your breasts even more than the stretch of your arms already does. Slowly, he drags his hand up his shaft, flicking his thumb across the already leaking slit. He releases a little puff of air and his mouth tightens. For a heartbeat, he freezes, but then he sets his jaw and his eyes meet yours and he lets his hand move.

Encouragingly as you can — and you always have to hope your expressions translate the way you intend in the minds of other people, but Ashe seems pretty good at decoding them — you smile at him as his free hand runs up the side of your ribs. It lifts, and you think he means to touch your bust (that would be the obvious play, right?), but he skips over that area entirely and lands at your clavicle. His fingers run along it, tracing the bone from sternum to shoulder. Then he sighs, and you feel his fingers shake against your skin.

“You’re doing so well, Ashe,” you say, touching his knee. “You’re so good, so beautiful right now.”

See, you know a thing or two about Ashe’s weaknesses. In the thick of battle, it’s enemy soldiers getting in melee range. Up on a wyvern, it’s other archers. In bed, it’s praise.

His head falls forward as he stifles a moan. You’d like to see his eyes peeking out through that silver curtain of hair, but they’ve fluttered shut, and you won’t press that for now. Instead, your hands wander up his thighs, and you drink in the tiny noises he tries to keep inside.

“Won’t you let me hear you?” you ask, voice like velvet (you hope).

He chokes out a laugh. “You, hah, can hear m-me,” he forces out.

Affecting a sigh but wearing a smirk, you slide one hand further until it reaches his hip and creeps around to his behind. “Won’t you let me hear with without holding back?” you say. “You knew what I meant. You just wanted to talk back. I’m feeling kind enough to let it slide. Lucky you look so pretty losing your composure.”

Ashe doesn’t try to mask the breathy groan that tumbles from him. “Wh— ah, what if you di— didn’t want to l-let it slide?”

Humming, you squeeze his ass, and he rewards you with a gasp. “What, and spoil the surprise for later? I’m sure you can use your imagination.”

He chuckles, but it’s breathy and halting. “A-alright, keep your secrets, then.”

With heavy eyelids you say, “I think I will. I suspect you won’t, though. Not if I ask nicely.”

Ashe fumbles. “What do you mean?”

“What do you normally imagine,” you say, “when you’re touching yourself like that?”

“Oh, that’s what you…” he says as his eyes widen, and you can’t help but wonder what he thought you were asking. He doesn’t leave you time to inquire. “You,” he answers, and you can’t see any hints of deception on his features. “I… I think about you.”

Something warm bubbles inside you. It’s not unpleasant. “Considering what we get up to, that’s hardly a surprise,” you murmur as your hand wanders up his side.

“U-um, yeah, I guess.” He stumbles over the words as his hand moves faster. When your thumb grazes his nipple he exhales in one quick, shaky sigh, eyes squeezing shut.

“Pretty,” you say with a light chuckle, and you’re fairly sure his answering moan wasn’t a sound he meant for you to hear. “I think about you too, you know.”

“Oh,” he breathes, stuttering and half-present. “W-why?”

You sigh, bringing your fingers to his chin. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were fishing for compliments.”

“N… no, I…” he begins half-heartedly, but it’s without the fervour of his usual protests, and peters out before he can get anywhere.

“I know, I know,” you assure him. “You wouldn’t. Either way, there’s no need to beg for what I freely wish to give. Not that I don’t love it when you beg.” 

It dawns on your that your cheekiness is a little lost on him when all he can muster in reply is a panted “ah.”

“To answer your question,” you begin, tilting his downturned head up for a better view of his flushed face. His eyes flutter open — halfway, at least — but are unfocussed behind the messy grey hair that falls before them. His breaths come out in shallow pants through parted lips. You’re almost overwhelmed by the urge to cover them with your own. What holds you back is the knowledge that he’d have to move to let you do that, perched on your abdomen as he is, and you’re really happy with the view right now.

“Haa… y… yes?” he asks, blinking slowly.

Oh, right! Right. You’d spoken. Right. Okay. The corner of your lip crooks up like you’d totally meant to keep him waiting. “To answer your question,” you repeat, slower than last time, also like this was all a part of the plan. This has the side benefit of giving you a smidge more time to think of a proper response, as what comes to mind is ‘because it’s you’, and you don’t think that’s what he wants to hear. That doesn’t explain anything. “You’re wonderful like this,” you tell him, hoping he picks up on the honesty in your voice. “I know you worry, but you don’t need to. I like you with your walls down.”

“Byleth…” Ashe breathes. He clutches your arm for balance, bending his back to lean over you.

“Like that,” you whisper as you let your hand fall from his chin. As the hand you have behind him travels lightly as the morning breeze up his back, he shudders. “You have no idea how attractive you are right now.”

“I should— ahhh — be saying that to you,” he says.

“I am saying it to you,” you counter. “Tell me more about what you imagine. What happens in your head?”

He stops breathing for just a flash as your fingertips graze the hand he has wrapped around himself. 

“Uh… everything?” he gasps, which in turn makes you laugh warmly.

“Well, I guess that about covers it,” you tease. “Can you narrow it down for me?”

A smile plays at his lips for a moment before he pants it away. The hand with which he clutches your arm tightens, then lets go altogether before moving to your breast to toy with your nipple. The action draws out a gasp from you as it sends shockwaves to your belly and you hear his breathing hitch in response. His strokes have grown uneven, you notice, and forming words seems to be a struggle. But struggle through it he does. “The Goddess Tower,” he says. “I r-remember kneeling, and— ahh—- I think— I think about how that f-felt, and how you tasted…”

You let your lower hand drift back to his thigh and he whimpers at the loss, or maybe at the loss of what its previous position had suggested. You don’t know. You suspect he’s not thinking too deeply about it, either.

“If you could only hear yourself through my ears,” you say softly as you bring the hand on his back around to touch his chest, pressing your palm to where you can feel his rapid heartbeat, “you’d never doubt yourself again.”

Ashe chokes out something like a sob. “I can… I can tell you more,” he says.

“Please do,” you reply with a squeeze of his thigh.

Before speaking, he lets out a sharp nasal exhale. “I… S-sometimes, I…” he tries. “Sometimes I— I imagine what— what it would be like if… if you would take me, l-like a… like… hahh…”

You decide then and there that Ashe is the best, actually.

“There, there, don’t strain yourself. I understand perfectly,” you coo, stroking lines on his thigh with your thumb. The hand on his chest drops, and you slither it behind him once again.

“You, ahh, y-you…” he fumbles.

“Mmm, I do, I get it.” You run a finger between his cheeks. Just to get the point across, of course. He gasps harshly, whimpering as you drag over his entrance.

“B… By…”

“Oh, well said.” The hand on his leg ambles higher. “Maybe if you’re really good, I’ll let you in on the secret that I want that, too.” When you quickly swish your finger over his slit, he comes with a ragged keen.

There’s semen on your jaw and it’s not yet six thirty.

Ashe pants above you, his unfocussed eyes lazily blinking their way back to the real world.

“Oh… sorry,” he breathes when he notices the mess on your face. He drags a thumb over the stray spurt. Of course, that doesn’t fix what’s cooling on your chest or dripping down his stomach, but you’ve heard that one step at a time is a good way to tackle problems.

“Don’t apologise,” you say lightly. “Brought it on myself.”

He laughs as he eyes his dirtied hand. “Uh, that you did, I guess.” 

There’s a smile on your face, you realise. “You’re amazing, you know that?”

Blinking, he freezes. Then those bright green eyes meet yours. “You’re very good at making me want to believe that.”

Something light and fluttery surrounds your heart and you can’t help but let your smile widen. “Good!” you laugh. “We both want you to believe it! I’m glad we’re in agreement.”

Holding his messy hand so that it touches neither you nor your bedding, he crawls off you and kneels on the mattress beside you. After a moment to catch his breath, he leaves the bed entirely. “I’ll…” he begins, crouching at one of your drawers and shuffling through it one handed. “Cloth,” he says absently, like the word came to him and let itself out, as if he himself had nothing to do with it.

“Thank you,” you smile, and you could tell him that it’s okay, you’ll get it, but just as experience told him where to find a clean cloth in your room, experience tells you that he’ll insist regardless, that he’ll be happier if you just let him help.

“I’ll— I’ll actually be leaving this time,” he says once you’re both acceptably clean.

“Mmh, more’s the pity,” you murmur, rolling onto your side to watch him dress.

He chuckles as he pulls up his pants and sits on the edge of your bed to deal with his shoes. “If I don’t make myself head out now, I’ll be in danger of deciding not to leave at all.”

“I’m afraid I don’t see a downside,” you quip, and he scoffs at you. 

“You’re right,” he says with a smile. “I don’t know what I was thinking.” Still, sadly, he dons his shirt. “It’s already a bit late. Someone might see me, I don’t…”

“It’s okay, Ashe.” As he fetches his coat, you pull the blankets back up over your chest. The room isn’t cold by any means, but without his skin against yours, it feels icy as one of Seteth’s trademark glares. “You don’t need to explain yourself.”

“I know,” he responds in a tone that says he’s going to anyway. “I’d rather not, uh, give anyone the wrong idea, is all.” He rubs the back of his neck before turning to look at you again, brows knitting together and pulling upward. “If someone thought we were… well, and started asking me about it, I can’t say I…”

You answer his sheepish smile with a more confident one of your own. “Don’t want to deal with all that?”

Ashe nods. “Y-Yes. Something along those lines.”

Heaving a sigh, you close your eyes. “I suppose I can cope with being your secret shame.”

“Byleth! That’s not… oh. You’re teasing.”

When you crack one eye open, you see his cheeks dusted with pink. “You know me well,” you intone.

Letting out a breath, he smiles. “I’m lucky like that.” He leans over you to drop a kiss on your forehead, and as he draws back you note gladly that the tension in his brow has entirely dissipated. Before he can escape, you touch a hand to his cheek and catch his lips with your own. This kiss is quick, chaste, but you’re all the better for it.

“I’m really leaving now,” Ashe says as he draws away. For good measure, he takes a step backwards, not entirely out of reach, but far enough that bridging the distance would be an effort.

“Really leaving,” you repeat. “For real.”

“For real,” echoes Ashe. “Absolutely, definitely, really leaving.”

You hum. “Really?”

He shakes his head and chuckles, crossing the room to your door. “Really.” As he lays his hand on the doorknob, he keeps up the assertions. “I’m going. I swear it. On my honour as a knight, I— ghhk!”

It’s a fortunate thing, you think, that you covered yourself, because on the other side of the doorway, hand raised as if to knock, stands Lorenz Hellman Gloucester. The men stare at each other, unblinking, and it’s as if time has stopped. Really. You’re more than qualified to make the comparison. 

It’s Lorenz who catches himself first. Violet eyes meet your own before flicking away just as quickly, his jaw tightening at your obvious state of undress beneath the covers.

“Good morning, Ashe,” he says, perfectly politely, dipping his head. “And to you, Professor,” he adds without looking your way again.

“Hello Lorenz,” you mumble, falling back on the pillow as Ashe stumbles his way through a greeting of his own. What he cobbles together out of half-words and scattered syllables isn’t coherent, but Lorenz nods all the same.

“I am terribly sorry to have inconvenienced the two of you,” he says. “My intention was merely to speak with Professor before she busied herself with today’s tasks, but I see now my timing was amiss. For that error, please, accept my humblest of apologies.” He gives a small bow and goes on. “What I’d wished to talk about is no urgent matter, so for now, I’ll take my leave. I shall seek you out at a later time. Until then!” He ducks his head again, this time in farewell, and moves to leave. You see Lorenz take a last look at Ashe, who apart from blinking hasn’t appeared to come alive again, before pursing his lips, taking the doorknob in hand and softly shutting the door behind himself.

“It wasn’t Hilda,” you say immediately, hoping he’ll take it as reassurance.

Ashe groans, resting his forehead on the door. He looks like he needs a hug. You’re pretty sure he needs a hug. So you slip out of bed, slip into a robe, and slip your arms around his chest. He startles, then just sighs.

“Sorry,” he says.

“What for? Everything’s fine, Ashe.”

He shifts and you release him, taking a step back to give him space. Leaning with his back against the door, he sighs again. “I should have left earlier. Now Lorenz knows, and—”

“It’s fine,” you repeat, touching his arm. “I convinced you to stay, didn’t I? Nothing to apologise for there. What Lorenz knows doesn’t matter. We’re adults. We can do as we please. If it bothers you, I can talk to him for you, okay?”

That doesn’t seem the be what he expected to hear. “Do you… really not mind?”

“What, that he knows? I don’t see why I should, no.”

“Huh,” he says, looking at the floor like it might translate your answer into a language he understands. After a moment he clears his throat, training his eyes back on yours. “I’d, uh, really appreciate if you did. Talk to him, that is. If it’s not too much trouble.”

Before you take your hand from his arm, you give it a soft pat. “No trouble at all.”

He looks at you for a second, two, three, and then his smile grows into something softer than those fancy imported Almyran blankets Anna had come close to convincing you to purchase nearly a moon ago.

“Thank you,” he says, quickly followed up with “I-I should go.”

“Perhaps,” you say with a quiet laugh.

He’s out the door fairly quickly, but not quickly enough for you to miss the way his cheeks flush.

All in all, not the start to the day you’d expected.

When you arrive early to the training ground, a few minutes before the bells chime ten, Lysithea’s already working hard. A short list of things more surprising than that: the sun rising in the morning, birds flocking to Marianne, Lorenz reciting his full name.

“I’m pleased you agreed to work with me today, Professor,” she says as you approach, forgoing greetings entirely. As the two of you swap spells, shooting every colour of the rainbow across the brown and dusty facility, she talks about the ways in which your respective schools of magic could synergise on the battlefield to create maneuvers stronger than the sum of their parts. There’s not much you can offer in response beyond simple nods and agreement; figuring out the inner complexities of magic just isn’t your wheelhouse. You don’t think she minds, though. Lysithea seems like she’s thinking aloud, and if your best use to her is as a sounding board and sparring partner, then you’ll be the best sounding board and sparring partner you can.

At half past eleven, Lorenz joins you. Unlike you, Lysithea seems to have been expecting him. For a moment, you worry he’ll ask about Ashe in front of Lysithea, but he mentions nothing of the sort. Instead, he tries to keep up with her explanations and theorising, interjecting where he can with what he must hope is valuable insight. You wouldn’t really know either way if not for Lysithea’s less than thrilled reactions. She humours him more often than not, answering his statements with lukewarm ‘is that so’s that made him puff his chest out in pride.

The sun has just passed its highest point in the sky when the three of you decide to call it quits. Lysithea thanks both of you, and Lorenz tells her all about how happy he is to be of such help.

“Oh, and Professor,” he says, turning to you as he adjusts the rose-shaped metal pin on his lapel. “I’ve still those matters to discuss with you. Given we’ve been blessed with such stunning weather today, shall we take tea in the gardens? At mid-afternoon, perhaps?”

You do not miss the way the singular matter of this morning has morphed into matters, plural. You also do not miss Lysithea silently raising her eyebrows.

“That’s fine by me,” you reply after a brief mental check of your schedule.

“Splendid,” he enthuses with a sparkling smile and a flick of his hair. “I look forward to it. Farewell, Professor, Lysithea.”

Lysithea watches him go, arms crossed. She allows herself a little smirk, though you’re fairly sure she’s on the wrong track. “Matters, huh?”

Letting out a sigh, you shake your head. “He tried to come talk to me this morning,” you say evenly.

“And…?” she prompts.

“I hadn’t gotten out of bed,” you land on.

That seems to satisfy her. She snorts. “Oh, good one, Lorenz. You’re normally an early riser, Professor,” she notes, sharp as ever. “Did you sleep in, or was he really that early?”

“It wasn’t quite six thirty.”

You’ve grown to cherish the sound of Lysithea’s laughter. She deserves more to laugh about, so you smile when she does now. “Goodness,” she giggles. “I wonder what was so important. Anyway…” She turns to you with a smile. “Thank you again for the help. I really am grateful. But I need to be going, now. Take care, Professor.”

You echo the sentiment and watch as she sets off in the direction of her dorm, books and notes in hand.

You’ve a few hours to yourself, which is nice, and you spend the first chunk of that time in the dining hall. As you enter, you spot Claude sitting opposite Raphael and Flayn at about the same time he spots you. He waves you down with a signature grin and you nod, but jerk your chin at the serving line and head there instead. After spending a good couple of hours chucking magic around, food comes first.

Fish sandwich in hand, you slide into the free spot next to Claude. Raphael greets you warmly and Flayn smiles sweetly, and briefly, you reflect on how easy it is to feel at home.

The conversation drifts to food. Given the people seated opposite you, it’s hardly a surprise.

“Flayn, I forgot,” you say, and she tilts her head in question. “I meant to tell you how well you did on that meal the night we got back here. Your cooking is really coming along.”

“See?” Raph exclaimed with an encouraging clap to her shoulder. His huge palm is a sight to behold on her tiny frame. “Told you it was great!”

A delicate blush graces her features, and she ducks her head, but does nothing to hide her ear-to-ear beam. “Oh, thank you ever so much. You are both far too kind!” Big green eyes glance up at you through her lashes, and she tucks a stray strand of hair away. “But I simply cannot take the credit. You did, after all, provide the very, very best of fish with which to work! On top of that, I would not have gotten anywhere at all without Ashe’s careful guidance.”

“Ashe, hm?” says Claude. His eyes slide over you, and his face is adorned with that same pleasant, conversational smile he’s been wearing this whole time, but you know better, you see that hidden spark of cheekiness, so you know to think Goddess damn it, Claude well before he gets on with what he’s trying to say. “You like what he serves up, Teach?”

Claude might have a commendable poker face, but so do you. “He’s good at what he does,” your fire back, casually as can be.

“Sadly, you’d know better than I would,” he responds, closing his eyes and taking a sip from his glass of water, as if making a show of not watching your face for a reaction. Scratch that, not as if, that’s totally what he’s doing. He doesn’t need to see you to know if his comment hit its mark, and he wants you to know that.

“I would,” you say, doing some quick mental calculations. You come to a couple of conclusions. One, Raphael’s a straightforward enough kind of guy that he won’t be looking for any hidden meanings in what you say. He certainly doesn’t seem to have caught on thus far. Two, any of those aforementioned hidden meanings will fly over Flayn’s head. Unless, of course, they don’t, but in that case Seteth will in all likelihood kill you to death so you won’t be able to worry after that.

Which is a longwinded way of saying you feel comfortable enough to retort that “I’m lucky enough to have had plenty of chances to taste-test.”

It’s a satisfying thing, watching Claude’s eyes snap open. Passing off his surprise with a cough, he sets his glass down quickly. You’ve given him no new information, you know that. The key was the delivery.

“Are you okay?” you ask sweetly.

Raphael’s already out of his seat. “Need me to thump your back? My sister always does it for me when I eat too fast. It helps!” he asks, rounding the table.

“No! No. Thanks, Raph, but I’m fine.”

Flayn giggles as Raphael returns to his seat, but tries to politely hide her mirth behind a hand. You catch her eye and smile, making her giggle again.

“I do apologise, Claude,” she says.

He makes a psh sound. “Nah, I earned it. Say, what were we talking about again?” He glances your way. He’ll follow your lead on this? Good.

“Cooking, I believe,” you start, turning your eyes on Raphael. “By the way, have you heard the offer from one of the Eastern merchants? They’re willing to provide with a decent cache of meat if we clear Magdred Way of bandits.”

His eyes gleam. “You kidding, Professor? ‘Course I have! We’re gonna help ‘em out, right?”

When a couple of minutes have passed and Flayn and Raphael are chatting animatedly about the possibilities of the meatcache, you surreptitiously catch Claude’s eye.

“Keep it quiet,” you whisper softly enough that you might as well be mouthing it. You don’t need to clarify what you’re talking about.

He winks in return. “Say no more. I’ve got your back. You know that, right, Teach?”

You smile. “I do.”

Claude leaves the table first, presumably to go do important Claude business. He exits with a sweeping bow that draws yet more giggles from Flayn. Soon after, she and Raphael head out together, mentioning something about training, and you can’t begin to imagine what exercises they could possibly share, but hey, they seem excited about the idea. Either way, you’re left alone at the table, and there’s not much point in that, so you gather up your dishes and leave the table alone with itself.

There’s a little time left before your arranged meeting with Lorenz. Fishing is an option, but you find yourself passing the pier over today. You keep walking, check in with your favourite Gatekeeper, then have a short wander through the bustle of the market. By and large, the vendors keep the same goods in stock from day to day. But now and then, they’ll be able to order in something new, or you’ll need something they just don’t have in Garreg Mach, and they know just who and where to get it from.

You have an illuminating conversation with Anna.

Mid-afternoon fast approaches, and the weather holds beautifully. You arrive at the pavilion to find Lorenz already at his seat, a steaming teapot, two matching cups, and a tray of biscuits his only company.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” you say out of habit as you pull out the chair opposite him and sit.

“An apology? Perish the thought. I’ve been here but a few minutes. It’s quite alright. Tea?”

You nod, and he busies himself with pouring. “Thank you. You wanted to speak with me?”

He laughs politely as he hands you your cup. “As ever, straight to the point. You are correct, I’d been hoping to discuss your recent changes to our battalion assignments.”

Your mint tea has cooled enough to drink by the time he’s finished raising his concerns vis-à-vis his new battalion. His points have nearly all been grounded in logic (apart from his concerns with the uniform, which you told him was not in your jurisdiction, and perhaps he could speak with the battalion’s leader if he wished to make a change), and although he’s completely missing the point, you’re glad he brought it up rather than went along with what he thought was the wrong choice.

“You don’t need attacking assistance,” you explain. “You won’t find a battalion in Fódlan able to help you on both a physical and magical front, and choosing one or the other would amount to dead weight half the time. Stick with the Holy Monks and you’ll be helping the whole team. Their ability to move troops is unparalleled, and on your mount, you can get to allies in a sticky situation faster than most others. Any questions?”

A beat passes before he answers. “None, in fact,” he says with a nod. “I confess I had not thought to look at it that way.”

“I thought so,” you say before taking another drink.

Lorenz looks a little crestfallen at that, but he hides it quickly. “In future, I’ll endeavour to do better.”

“Good plan.”

“Indeed,” he says, raising his own teacup to his lips. You watch him wordlessly, waiting for him to bring up the other reason he invited you here. You’re certainly not going to do it for him.

When he places his teacup back on its plate, he cushions it with his pinky finger so that it barely clinks. Ferdinand was the same way, you rememb—

You push that thought from your mind.

“With that taken care of,” Lorenz starts, right on cue. “I do hope you’ll not find this too invasive, Professor, but as your steadfast, most trusted friend, I’ve questions I simply must ask.”

Goddess, you don’t have the heart to correct him. “What’s on your mind, Lorenz?”

“Well, it’s in regards to this morning,” he says. “I… forgive me if this line of questioning seems indelicate, but I only have your wellbeing in mind.” He’s enunciating even more clearly than usual, and his finger runs in slow circles around the rim of his teacup. Oh, he’s nervous.

“I understand, Lorenz,” you assure him. “Say what you need to.”

He nods with purpose. “Then I shall,” he says, eyes dropping from yours for a fraction of a second. “I suppose I should begin thus: regarding what I saw, well, it seemed like something one would know the truth of in an instant. I am not… mistaken, am I?”

You hold back a sigh as you realise he’s probably going to keep on talking in circles if you don’t do something. “It was exactly what it looked like,” you tell him plainly. “Before you go on, I want to say two things.”

“By all means.”

“One,” you start, lifting a finger. “You don’t need to dance around the subject. I’m sure you don’t plan on asking for details, so you won’t offend me.”

“Details—” he splutters, but you carry on.

“Two.” Another finger. “If you breathe a word of mine and Ashe’s personal business to another soul, I’ll consider it a betrayal of trust.”

“I am not the type to engage in idle gossip,” he says, and you could swear you’re being admonished before his scowl softens. “Professor, I would not dream of telling anyone without your express permission.”

“I appreciate that, Lorenz.” You grab a biscuit from the tray he must have brought with him. “So, you had questions?” As you pop the biscuit in your mouth, he nods. 

“Only a couple, but they are important nonetheless. Firstly, and I do not mean to imply by asking that your observational skills are in any way lacking, but are you sure he can be trusted?”

Closing your eyes, you exhale through your nose, counting to three and reminding yourself that Lorenz was the one Ashe took aim at during the conflict at Ailell. “I am beyond certain.”

“Again, I do not mean to offend,” he assures you. “I only ask because we found him in the service of House Rowe. Professor, I understand that to you, the years since our time at the Academy must seem fleeting, but the rest of us have seen years of war. Of all of our class, he alone chose to support an ally of the Empire.”

“Did House Gloucester not support Edelgard’s cause?” you snap back.

His nostrils flare. “I did not — do not — control my father’s actions!”

There’s an icy moment of silence between the two of you. You’re the one who breaks it. “Ashe had to survive somehow. Unlike almost everyone else, he had two children relying on him. You all knew he had two young siblings. You watched Catherine kill Lonato. Did anyone reach out to him?”

“That’s hardly fair, I had more pressing matters—”

“Everyone has problems, it’s a war!”

What lets you know you’ve raised your voice is a couple of passing nuns stopping in their tracks, then hurrying off at twice their previous pace. When you exhale, you deflate, sinking back into your chair and trying to release the tension that’s crept into your shoulders.

“I cannot disagree with that statement,” Lorenz says quietly, flatly.

You sigh. “I didn’t mean to yell,” you say, because for one reason or another, you can’t quite summon an apology.

“Nor did I mean to imply he was without worries.” He pauses. “Those of us within the Alliance tried to keep in touch with one another. I was assured that Raphael was coping perfectly well with providing for his sister. But I confess… I did not once try to contact Ashe.”

“I gathered that,” you say more stonily than you mean to.

He grimaces. “I feel I must apologise.” Lorenz ducks his head, the longest of his violet strands brushing the tabletop. “I should have expected you would feel bound to defend the honour of someone you so care about.”

“He’s a dear friend,” you say, “and I know I can trust him.”

When Lorenz smiles, it’s weak, but you can see relief in his eyes. “Very well. Then I will take your word for it.”

“Good.” You nod. “You had more to ask?”

“Nothing so accusatory as my last question, I promise,” Lorenz replies.

“I can’t decide if that’s better news for me or you,” you muse before drinking another mouthful of cooling tea.

At that, he laughs brightly. Rather too brightly to be entirely genuine. But neither is it entirely fake. “Oh, it’s most assuredly better news for myself. All jokes aside, though…” He clasps his hands on the table. “I ask this as a friend who cares for your wellbeing: does he treat you well?”

It’s not the question you were expecting. You’re not sure what question you were expecting, exactly, but it certainly wasn’t that. Instead of answering, which you wholly forget to do, you blink.

“Does… does he not? Oh, Professor, tell me that isn’t the case! Worry not, you need only say the word, and I will fetch Leonie. Together we will put the fear of the Goddess in him, and he’ll never so much as—”

“Lorenz.”

He stops mid-sentence and you’ve never been so grateful.

“While I appreciate the sentiment,” you say evenly, “Ashe is wonderful to me, and if you threaten him, I will end you.”

If you hadn’t seen Lorenz nearly bleed out in skirmishes long passed, perhaps you’d be surprised by just how much paler than his regular skintone he can get. As it is, when he blanches, you’re just glad to have gotten the message across.

“Understood,” he says through barely-moving lips. Then he takes a long sip of tea.

“Was there anything else you wanted to know?” you ask once he sets his teacup back on its saucer, silently praying for an answer in the negative.

“No, no, I’m afraid I’m done with prying for today,” he says, and it’s all you can do to stop yourself from sighing in relief. He goes on. “I do hope you understand, Professor, that it was not my intention to cast doubt on your decisions, nor to interfere in matters of the heart.”

“Matters of the—” you sputter. “Lorenz, what are you talking about?”

He frowns, pursing his lips. “You told me to speak plainly, Professor. I’m merely trying to abide by that. Or is that too… direct a description of the nature of your relationship with Ashe?”

“Relationship?” you repeat, and your eyebrows feel like they’re trying to escape your face and trek directly to the heavens. “We’re not… ohhh.” See, when it hits you, it hits you all at once. “Lorenz, I’ve given you the wrong impression. That’s not what’s going on at all.”

One look tells you he neither believes nor follows you. “May I ask what is? If what I saw was ‘exactly what it looked like’, as you said, then—”

“It was,” you interrupt. “He stayed the— you know what, no, I don’t need to get into further details. This has gotten out of hand. Yes, you saw what you saw. No, we’re not in a relationship. Your concern is noted, appreciated, and unwarranted. Any questions?”

If you have to explain the concept of fuck-buddies to Lorenz Fucking Gloucester, you think you’ll quit. Like, just quit. Cease to exist.

“If you’re not together, then…”

You are going to quit—

“Oh! Oh, my.” The shade of scarlet Lorenz turns compliments his all-purple ensemble fairly well.

“It’s clicked, has it?”

“I do believe it has,” he stammers. “My, and we both thought we were on the same page, didn’t we?” He laughs, nervously but freely all the same. “I imagine I must have come across as a touch dramatic, given the true circumstances.”

“You imagine correctly.”

“Well! For that, you have my apologies.”

Later, you realise you can’t quite decide if that whole conversation went well or not. What constitutes ‘well’, you wonder? When you next see Ashe, you’re able to tell him that you talked to Lorenz as promised (boy, did you ever talk to Lorenz), and that everything is taken care of. You can’t help but feel forgotten something, though you’ve no idea what, but his relieved smile is enough for you to decide that whether or not your chat strictly went ‘well’ is irrelevant.

Nary a week passes before Anna has a remarkably ordinary looking box with your name on it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> writing lorenz is so much fun,,
> 
> what's in the box huh


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey sorry for the wait!! i've set up a twt for this account, come hang with me @moonberrytxt :)

When you were very young — old enough to understand and obey instructions, but too small to swing a sword — your father would sometimes have you hide in a copse of bushes, or a hollowed out log, anywhere suitably out of sight. You’d wait without making a sound, knowing he’d come for you sooner or later, and that it was okay if it was later rather than sooner because in the end things would work out. He always found you right where he left you.

Once you grew up a little and Jeralt started letting you help out on jobs, you could sit unseen for hours, hands wound around a weapon, ready to strike but willing to wait. Sometimes, your target would pass you by, close and unguarded, and you knew in your gut you could drop them before they realised ought was amiss. But you didn’t, not when your orders were to watch and wait, to pounce at the signal and not a moment before. Biding your time has never been a weak point of yours.

Logically, then, you are forced to conclude that waiting for the chance to pin Ashe to your bed is the most difficult task you’ve faced thus far. Never in your life have you felt this impatient. From the moment you accepted your much anticipated remarkably ordinary looking box from Anna and ferried it to your room in as ordinary a manner as you could manage, something’s been swirling in your gut. It coils up and and calms down when it must, when you’ve other things to think about, but it doesn’t quite go away.

When you don’t have anything else to occupy your mind, though? Well. That’s when it roars.

Your schedules don’t line up for days. You see him, of course. Life in the monastery is a busy thing as of late, and everyone’s paths cross everyone else’s in one fashion or another. At the training grounds, as he and Ignatz swap archery pointers (you have never heard two people apologise so much for critique they were explicitly asked to give). In the kitchens, when Flayn suggests that the three of you make lunch on a bright, sunny day (and how could you say no?). Quietly sitting with Marianne in the Cathedral (where you’re glad to notice they can both still find some comfort).

It’s at the war council that you remember what you forgot to tell him. You’re discussing the undeclared army. A real head-scratcher, that one. The plan is to let them cross at Myrddin unobstructed. You scratch their back, they don’t stab yours. That kind of thing. Everyone has the chance to give their two cents, and you can’t help the little swell of fondness around your heart when Ashe raises concerns about what an armed, unknown quantity might mean for the civilians in the area.

You know Claude well enough to tell his genuine approving looks from the ones meant to placate. The one he gives Ashe is of the former variety.

“I don’t think our mysterious friends will bother the townsfolk,” Claude says. “They haven’t so far — we’d have received reports long ago if they’d pillaged their way to our doorstep. Something tells me they’re on a mission, and they’re not about to indulge in a little massacre for fun and profit in the mean time.”

“How can we be certain?” Ashe asks, frowning at Claude’s choice of words.

Claude grimaces. “Honestly, we can’t. We can only make assumptions based on what we’ve seen.”

Which reminds you. Claude knows.

“Claude’s right,” you say, pulling your focus back to the matter at hand. “We can’t let worries and what-ifs guide our decisions when all signs point to a better outcome.”

“I guess you’re right,” says Ashe, and while he’s clearly unconvinced he raises no objections.

The remainder of the meeting passes uneventfully, and bit by bit, everyone shuffles out. Your freedom, as ever, isn’t granted until later. Not that you’d complain about it, but there’s always someone (or several someones) waiting to talk to you at the council’s conclusion.

When you do escape — and it dawns on your that you haven’t thought about leaving the war council as escaping before — you take a detour to the marketplace on the way to the dock. There’s bait in stock. Not much, but you buy up the merchant’s entire inventory. You tend to do so every time. What you’ve reeled in over the past couple of months has been invaluable in keeping both the kitchen and hungry bellies full. Maybe someone else would pick up the slack if you didn’t spend so much time on the pier. You don’t know. As it is, you’re the one who does it, and that’s alright by you.

Also alright by you: Ashe sitting near the edge of the pier, eyes cast over the slowly moving lake, the faintest of smiles on his face. He looks so peaceful, you almost don’t want to disturb him. But, on the other hand, you really do. If you disturb him, you get to spend time with him, and—

Huh. Is Ashe your best friend? 

Having friends in the first place took some getting used to. Some subconscious part of your brain figured it out a while before it bothered telling the rest of you, because you remember your eyes snapping open one night as you thought idly about getting Hilda to bedazzle a stuffed bear’s coat for Marianne. Your friends would be so happy, you’d mused, the word coming as naturally as any other, like it was no more unusual than ‘happy’ or ‘be’. And all at once it hit you: you had friends.

You’re not blind, and you’ve not been living under so much of a rock as to not know there are different kinds of friends. Friends ready to party and drink you under the table. Friends who comfort you through the tough times, and offer words of advice when you can’t figure out which path to walk.

(Friends who get up to what you and Ashe do in the dark, though you are aware that that’s a rather special case.)

So. You know best friends are like. A thing. They exist. They’re better, closer friends than others.

If you do have a best friend, it’s got to be Ashe. Or Claude. He knows you well. Sometimes better than you know yourself. Can it be both? Does having two best friends negate the ‘best’ part? How does this even work?

“Oh— Professor!”

You blink and shake the questions from your mind. Ashe is looking back over his shoulder at you.

“Hello, Ashe.” You greet him with a smile, crossing the rest of the pier and setting your fishing gear down casually like you hadn’t been wracking your brain over what exactly friendship entails.

“Have you, uh, been there long?” he asks with a nervous chuckle.

Shaking your head, you ready your line. “No. I was lost in thought for a moment, that’s all.”

“Something on your mind?”

Your first instinct is to say no, tell him not to worry, but you decide against it. “I’m still getting used to what it means to have friends,” you admit.

His answering smile is sad, and for a moment you regret opening your mouth. “Well, if I have anything to say about it, you always will have friends. I’ll be here for you as long as you’ll have me.”

The warmth in your heart melts away that twinge of regret. “Thanks, Ashe,” you say, and ‘thanks’ feels insufficient but what are you supposed to say instead? “I… don’t doubt it.”

Yeah, that doesn’t feel like it covers it either, but he lets out a little laugh. “Well, that’s a relief.”

You’re still stuck for words, so in lieu of that, you cast your line. Neither of you speak for a bit, waiting for a bite.

Then you remember. “Claude knows about us. I forgot to tell you. Sorry.”

“Is that right?” Ashe just barely stumbles over the first word, but you catch it either way.

“Mm,” you intone, keeping your eyes on that spot where your line sinks below the water. “He almost certainly figured us out before we took The Bridge of Myrddin. He’ll keep quiet, but I should’ve told you earlier.”

“It’s alright. You’ve told me now. No harm done,” he assures you. “Was there anything else you wanted?”

There’s something about his tone — expectant, kind of… restrained? Goddess, you weren’t built for deciphering people — that strikes you as a little weird, but. But. What there anything you wanted? Well.

“Are you free tonight?” you ask in the same manner you’d ask about the weather.

“Y-yeah,” he answers. “Ah, after the dinner rush. I’m helping out tonight, ah, if that’s okay.”

“Of course it’s okay,” you reply, frowning as— oh, that’s a fish. “One moment,” you mutter as you concentrate on reeling the sucker in.

Ashe waits until the bounty’s secure before speaking up again. “You know, a couple of days ago now, Ignatz mentioned how the water catches the light when it moves. I’d never paid it any attention before, but now it’s like it’s all I can see when I look at the lake.”

You hum as you cast out your line once again. “You seemed content before I got here. Hope I didn’t ruin the view.”

His laugh is nearly a scoff. “Professor, you could never.”

Were he not out of reach, sitting while you stand, you’d probably softly elbow him for that one. “Well, I’m flattered,” you say dryly, glancing down to find him smirking, “but I was talking about fishing.”

“You’re making it more interesting, if anything,” he shrugs, casting his gaze out in much the same manner as your fishing line. “Where your line hits the water it makes ripples, see? And then the light shines off it in different ways I wouldn’t have seen if you weren’t here, and… oh, pardon me. I’m rambling, aren’t I?”

“A little,” you say with a smile. “It’s nice, though.”

“A-ah. Well, I’m glad I’m not bothering you, then. Still…”

“Ashe, it’s fine,” you assure him. “You don’t need to be so nervous. We’re friends aren’t we?”

“R-right!” he says with no small emphasis.

When he doesn’t come up with anything else, you decide to fill the silence for him. “Care to join me? I have all the bait you could ask for, and I could always use the help.”

“Yes!” he answers, standing. “Let me go get a pole, I’ll be right back.”

By the time you exhaust your bait, Ashe has to run off for kitchen duty. He’s reluctant to leave the tidying of equipment to you, but when you point out how many more people are counting on his work in the kitchen, he concedes and leaves you to it.

Night rolls around, as it tends to do. Ashe is good at getting around unseen when he wants to — he had no choice but to hone that skill — but even so, he tends to wait until the grounds have well and truly emptied of people before letting himself into your room.

It’s a surprise, then, when you open your door an hour past sunset and he’s there on the bed, leaning back against the wall with a book that quickly falls from his hand. He’s shed his coat, which sits folded on the floor next to a bag. You blink, hand still on the doorknob, and he smiles at you with the slightest blush.

“Ah, fancy meeting you here, Professor,” he says like he didn’t just drop a book on himself.

While you don’t slam the door shut, it’s not a gentle thing. “I thought I’d drop by,” you quip right back at him, throwing your own coat over the back of the chair at your desk and joining him on the bed. You very nearly launch yourself at him, but no, you have discipline and manage to hold back. Holding back, in this case, means sitting next to him against the wall, so close your arms touch.

Your head is nearly resting on his shoulder when you peer at the book. Its cover doesn’t give you much information. “What’s this one ab—”

His lips crash against yours. Your half-swallowed yelp of surprise goes unacknowledged. Which is just fine, you decide, melting into his fingers on your chin and letting him guide you into his lap.

“Sorry,” he laughs, sounding more bashful than apologetic, when he finally breaks the kiss.

“You shouldn’t be,” you return with a smile. “Unless you mean for breaking into my room?”

“If I told you the door was unlocked, would you believe me?”

Well, no, because it wasn’t. “That depends. Would you want me to? Or should I hold it against you?”

“I don’t think it would be very fair if you let me get away with it,” he muses, running his fingers lazily through the hair behind your ear.

“I’ll have to keep that in mind.” Your own hands wander more boldly — your fingers land on the neckline of his shirt. “But I’ll let you off this time. Lucky for you, I have plans. Am I correct in assuming you don’t want to waste any time with small talk?”

“I’d rather find out more about these plans you have,” he says, and you don’t even try to hide your shiver when he touches your neck. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Hmm, now that you mention it,” you say, tapping a finger to your chin in mock thought. “You could… oh, actually, there is,” you finish in a tone far more serious than the one you’d started with.

“Oh?” says Ashe, and his brows furrow just a tad, seemingly perplexed at the change.

“Nothing to worry about,” you tell him, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Just… you have to swear to tell me if you’re uncomfortable, or in pain, or you change your mind or anything. The slightest thing. Don’t try to grin and bear it. Can you promise me that?”

All traces of tension dissipate from his face, and your heart skips a beat at the look he gives you when he cups your own face in his hands. “I promise,” he says. “I don’t really want to hide anything from you.”

For whatever reason, you find yourself letting out a nervous laugh as your stomach performs a pleasant little flip of… relief, you think? “That’s reassuring.”

“Hah, is it?” he asks. “I thought it would be more frightening than it is.”

It’s your turn to blink and furrow your brows. “I don’t know what you mean,” you say, keeping your tone light. When he doesn’t reply, you suppose that’s that, and tap the uppermost clasp of his top. “If I may be so bold?”

“You usually are,” he chuckles, giving you a nod.

Neither of you are wearing anything above the waist for very long.

“Ashe,” you say, reluctantly separating your mouth from his after what feels like forever and no time at all.

“Mm,” is his reply, a hum of acknowledgment that does nothing to indicate he realises you want to say something. Your hunch is backed up when he moves to catch your lips in his again.

“Ashe,” you repeat, putting your hand over his mouth because it seemed like a good way to get his attention at the time, but now that he’s blinking up at you, wide eyed and bemused, you kind of want to laugh.

He hooks a finger under your hand and guides it gently from his face. “Yes, Professor?”

“About those plans.”

“You have my attention.”

You shift in his lap. “I’m aware.”

With a bashful chuckle, he averts his eyes, but not for long. When his eyes are back on you, a brighter green than ever contrasted by the red flush of his skin, you have to remind yourself not to bend down and kiss him again.

“It’ll be easier if I show you,” you decide aloud, slipping from his lap and leaving the bed to retrieve an unassuming little key you stuffed in a drawer with uniform socks you rarely wear. He waits where he is, silently patient, but you’re aware of his eyes on your every movement as you make your way around the room.

You don’t have the ordinary box from Anna any more. Empty of its contents, you returned it to her, because why should that wood go to waste? She’d giggled about that, but thanked you brightly all the same. Money saved, right? What you do have is a small, lockable chest of unremarkable make that you keep tucked away under your bed.

When you sit atop the covers and place the chest before yourself, Ashe shuffles closer. He looks intently at it, like if he concentrates hard enough he might see through the wood to what’s inside.

“Tell me if I’ve got the wrong idea,” you say, unlocking the chest, flipping the lid open and pivoting it around to face him.

You had imagined this going so many ways, but somehow Ashe Ubert doubling over with laughter when faced with a strap-on hadn’t occurred to you.

Your heart does not sink, thanks. “My apologies,” you say evenly, knocking the lid closed and moving to put the chest away.

“No! By… Byleth,” he says between breaths, grabbing at your wrist to stop you. It works, you freeze in place. He manages to calm his laughter while you look on, frowning and confused and honestly what is going on with those feelings in your gut? But then he looks up to meet your eye and collapses into giggles again.

“Ashe, I don’t understand,” you say plainly, and you don’t want to be short with him but you don’t appreciate how stupid you feel in the moment. If there’s a joke, you’re not in on it.

“Sorry, sorry,” he gasps, squeezing your hand and turning his face towards yours once again. “I’m not laughing at you, I swear. I think I’ve given you the, uh, the wrong idea.”

“Oh,” you say. Sure, you’re disappointed, but he has every right to turn down anything. Really, you’re just uncomfortable — and passing shocked, come to think of it — with how he expressed it. “That’s alright. You could have just said something.”

You’re a breath away from suggesting he leave for the night when he cuts in. “Wait, wait, no, that’s not what I… augh, I’m not great at this, am I?”

You still, waiting wordlessly for him to go on.

“What I mean to say is, ah,” he begins, scratching the back of his neck. “You didn’t get the wrong idea about, ah, this?” Gingerly, he taps at the chest, lid shut tight under the hand you never moved from it.

“No?” you ask, letting that hand fall away.

“No. Ah, n-not at all.” He reddens further, which is saying something given how flushed his fit of laughter left him. “It’s more that… ah, one moment,” he says, turning his back to you and leaning over the end of the bed. When he turns back, it’s with the bag that was sitting with his coat in hand. “I had, ah, hoped, but I didn’t want to assume, and I don’t know if I could’ve brought it up. But, uh, anyway.”

Ashe offers you the bag, which you take and look inside. You are not the only person, it seems, to have placed a special order with Anna recently. Hopefully she got a nice discount for buying in bulk.

“I see,” you say blankly in the pause before your emotions start working again. You blink, two, three, and then you shake your head, sighing a laugh of your own.

“Y… yeah,” he says, worrying at his bottom lip but smiling at you all the same. “I’m sorry, I really shouldn’t have laughed. I’ve killed the mood, haven’t I?”

“No,” you say immediately. Your hand goes to his. “I jumped to conclusions.” In all honesty, you can’t say the mood isn’t dead. But, you think, it doesn’t have to stay that way. “Besides, it’s still early. I’m sure there’s something we can salvage tonight. That is, if you still want to.”

“Mm, I bet you could convince me.” He leans your way, placing a steadying hand on the bed below him as he moves to catch your lips in his. You’re faster, however, and catch his chin in your hand, stopping him.

“Convince you?” you echo. “If you have something more interesting to do, don’t let me keep you.”

“And if I want you to keep me?” he asks in return, and it’s probably supposed to be breezy, but you don’t miss the subtle shake in his voice that you assume is born of anticipation.

You let your hand drop from his chin, but he doesn’t try to move. You push the chest and bag out of the way, to the side of the bed, resting against the wall. “I can work with that,” you say with an easy shrug before closing the distance yourself and kissing him.

“How should we…” he murmurs against your lips. He doesn’t finish the thought but you get the point anyway.

“There’s no rush,” you answer. Which strikes you as funny, considering how impatient you’ve been for what feels like so, so long, but now that you’re both here and alone you don’t see any reason to hurry. “Unless you want to rush, that is.”

He wraps his arms around you, and you feel his thumb stroking your side, just above your hip. “As long as I get to touch you like this, I’m happy.”

“You’re easy to please,” you tease, but the warmth that his statement stoked in your stomach seeps into your voice so transparently that it’s a stretch to call it teasing.

“Hah, I suppose so,” he says softly. You see the corners of his eyes crinkle with his smile, and then you close your own as your lips meet.

It seems so soon it’s almost cruel when he breaks away, and your instincts scream to chase him in the split second before his mouth is on the side of your neck.

“Ashe,” you breathe, equal parts surprised and pleased. He hums against you, the vibration of the sound on sensitive skin enough to make you shudder. Gently but insistently, he pushes you to lie on your back, and you can’t tell whether you’re more curious or eager but you oblige all the same.

Hovering above you with a clouded hunger in his eyes you’ve not seen before, he runs kisses down your neck, nips at your collarbone, holds firmly to your waist as he takes a nipple into his mouth. With a wordless cry you arch your back up to meet him. He lets out a low, throaty sound as he exhales, a hand going to your other breast and kneading.

“Don’t stop,” you say. You fist one hand in his hair and the other in the sheets.

Ashe’s mouth leaves you just long enough for him to reply “I don’t mean to.”

“Good, good,” you say, you chant, you very nearly pray. “Good, you’re so good, Ashe.”

Though you feel him chuckle, he doesn’t let up. The closest thing to stopping that he does is a brief pause before carefully putting pressure on your nipple with his teeth, rolling the other with a pinching grasp.

You moan.

“Goddess,” you enthuse, and this time he chuckles loudly enough that you can hear him, not just feel him. You cast your gaze down at him and find those light green eyes glittering back at you and wow do you ever want to kiss him right now. “C’mere,” you say, jerking your chin just the slightest bit.

He hesitates, but when you waggle your eyebrows at him he snorts a laugh and surges up to meet you. Your teeth clack together. Not quite painfully, but unpleasantly all the same.

“Ah, sorry,” he says, drawing back and wearing a suitably sheepish expression as you wince.

“It’s fine,” you tell him. “You’ll just have to try again.”

“I can do that.” This time, he takes your bottom lip in his teeth, softly as anything, and rolls it until it’s free again. “Better?”

Quickly, you place a peck on his lips. “Much improved. Excellent work.”

“Really? Because I think I should try again. To prove it wasn’t a fluke.”

A puff of laughter escapes through your nose. “You know, you’re unusually bold today.”

“Oh!” he says, and you can tell from the knit of his brow that your observation has caught him off guard. “I, ah, suppose?”

You touch his cheek. “Relax. It’s not a bad thing. Though I can’t help but wonder what brought it on.”

When Ashe blushes deeply, it’s harder to make out his freckles. As easily as he does blush, you still wonder how many people have noticed that. “I just… I really want to show you how much I appreciate you.” He averts his eyes, biting his lip. Pretty as it is, you wish he’d go back to biting yours. But that wish has a hard time grabbing your full attention, competing as it is with your heart glowing.

“You’re sweet, Ashe,” you say, though it seems woefully insufficient. “I hope you know I appreciate you, too. You’re one of the best friends I’ve ever had.” Something inside your head still complains that that doesn’t quite cover it, but you don’t know what else you’re supposed to say.

Either way, that gets his eyes back on yours, brows above furrowed in confusion. “Really? I am?”

“Of course you are.”

His smile is the shyest thing you’ve seen from him all night. “That hardly seems real.”

“It is, so you’d best believe it,” you say, going on before he can come up with a reason not to. “This is an odd conversation to be having half-naked, wouldn’t you say?” You rake your eyes over every inch of his exposed skin and puff your chest out for good measure. When your already sensitive nipples brush against him, you have to hold back the hitch in your breath.

Ashe swallows. The hunger is back in his eyes, and you couldn’t be gladder. “Why?” he asks, bearing down on you, close enough that his breath is warm and soft on your face. “Was there something else you wanted?”

“I want to see you squirming,” you whisper in his ear, and his answering gasp is shaky and sharp.

“I… want you to see that, too,” Ashe admits. He angles his head to lay kisses on your collarbone.

You chuckle, soft and approving. “There’s a good boy.”

“You know,” he says between kisses, “that’s really not fair.”

Your hands wander down his back and you shrug. “I’m aware. That’s why I say it. You love it, though.”

He murmurs “I really do,” against the hollow of your neck, then inhales deeply.

“I think I know what else you might love.” You trail your hands along his back to his shoulders.

“O-oh?” His voice jumps about an octave in the span of one broken syllable. Perhaps you were wrong, weeks ago (a month? Has it really been that long?), when you said he should’ve been a dancer. With a range like that, he should be a singer instead. After all, he does make such pretty sounds for you.

Gripping his shoulders, you flip the pair of you so that you’re on top, then you take his wrists in your hands and pin them either side of your head.

“Oh,” he says, offering no resistance to your grip, moving only his head to catch you in a kiss.

“Was I right?” you ask, smirking as you break apart.

“W-what,” he says, bumping his hip against yours, “you can’t tell?”

You hum before you answer, dropping a quick peck to the side of his lips. “I don’t know. You’re hard to read.” Which is quite possibly the most obvious joke you’ve ever told. He’s so easy to read, like a fairytale or children’s fable, or one of those chivalric stories he loves so much.

With a soft laugh, he shakes his head. “If you say so, Professor. Is there any way I can make it easier for you?” You can tell he catches your warning smile, your little tell before a devastating blow, because there’s a brief flash of worry in his eyes.

“You’re already pretty easy for me,” you deadpan.

Ashe tries not to grin. His efforts are undermined somewhat by the snort that escapes him. “Okay,” he says, one part begrudging to two parts amused. “I’ll admit that I walked right into that one.”

“Oh, ‘walked’ in, did you?” you ask, lifting your eyebrows exaggeratedly and very much enjoying his muffled ‘oh no’. “I was under the impression you broke in.”

“Byleth!” he groans, and you feel his wrist tug against your grasp, so briefly it must’ve been instinct. Instead, he hits your shoulder with the lightest headbutt you’ve ever received.

“Alright, alright,” you say, and you might have lifted your hands in surrender if they weren’t doing the important job of keeping Ashe’s pinned. “No more of that.”

Ashe breathes a sigh of relief. “You’re so merciful.”

“Now that’s something I don’t hear very often,” you muse, nosing at his neck. He breathes in as if to reply, but the words die on his lips when you bite just enough to ache, just long enough to wrest a whine from his throat before you let go again.

His hands tug at yours. “I take it back,” he grumbles as you grace freshly-bitten skin with only the lightest of kisses and licks, “you’re a monster.”

Chuckling under your breath, you pull back to get a good look at him. Goddess, he never stopped being pretty, did he? Seeing him pinned beneath you like this fans a fire in your gut. Not roaring, not out of control, but red-hot embers smouldering, quietly whispering words of how good it would feel to let them catch alight. 

Ashe tries to scowl up at you (’tries’ being the operative word). You want to make some snappy remark about the whole monster thing. You want to, but you realise his wrists are still tugging against your grasp, making their halfhearted bid for freedom, and you think you should probably check in on that.

“Do you want me to let your hands go?” you ask him, your voice light but devoid of teasing.

“I…” he begins. “I want to touch you.”

“That’s not quite what I asked,” you point out.

“I know,” he says, frowning and chewing his lip as if deep in thought.

“I didn’t think it would be such a difficult question,” you say, gently as you can.

“I can’t have it both ways,” he blurts out.

You blink, and it takes you a moment to figure out what he means. “You can have it any way you like,” you say, covering for that blinked-away moment.

Ashe closes his eyes, inhales deeply, and sighs even deeper. Then, he laughs. “Byleth, I…” He stops himself with a smaller sigh. “Ah, never mind. I think I’d like my hands free.”

You release him, and his hands go straight to your thighs. 

“I love getting to see you like this,” he says quietly as you sit up straight and stretch your arms. His eyes take in your exposed skin with reverence. It’s like his gaze is a blanket, wrapping you up all cozy and warm.

“Is that so?” you ask. “I could say the same about you.”

He laughs softly, and a little disbelievingly, but doesn’t argue. “I doubt the Church would be happy to hear me say this, but you look like a Goddess, some— uh, most of the time.”

“Ashe,” you say, catching his cheek in your palm and gently preventing him from hiding his (beautiful) face, “we fucked in the Goddess Tower. We’re a bit beyond making the Church happy.”

“Oh! Hah,” he says. “I suppose you’re right. In that case, if I can’t make the Church happy, maybe, ah, maybe I could make you happy?”

With a catlike grin you guide his hands to the lacing on your shorts. “You know, I think you can.”

His clever fingers have the laces completely undone by the time he sits up. That’s faster than you get it done on your own. He moves to pull the shorts lower but you stop him, placing a hand on his chest as you slide off his lap.

Without one of you sitting on the other, getting you both naked is quicker and easier. Now that’s efficiency. Clothes taken care of, you grip his shoulders and push him back to a prone position, making sure to drag your behind over his erection as you swing a leg over his waist and sit astride him again, causing him to gasp. His eyes are wide and dark and his hands go to your sides, holding firm.

You bend so that you’re hovering over him on your hands and knees, your foreheads nearly touching. “Want to make me really happy?”

“Yes,” he breathes, staring like he’s in a trance.

Brushing stray hairs from his face, you say “good boy.”

He swallows.

“Goddess, look at you,” you say warmly before crawling up and settling with your legs either side of his head.

Ashe inhales deeply, and his tongue darts out to wet his lips as he looks up at you. “Please,” he rasps, his hands snaking behind you and clutching at your ass.

With a hum, you shuffle forward. “How could I say no?” you ask, kneeling above him. Carding a hand through his hair, you let out a long breath as he kisses the soft skin of your inner thigh. It’s nice. Well, ‘nice’ is insufficient. But.

“Ashe,” you say, gripping his hair and guiding his head closer to your centre.

His breath of laughter is cold against wet skin. “Whatever you want, Byleth,” he says, and before you can reply he’s dragging his tongue across the entire length of your wetness and you shudder.

“That,” you say, holding tighter, breathing deeply. “I want that.”

“Mm-hmm,” is all he has to say for himself. It’s just as well, too, because as much of a fan as you are of hearing him speak you might just implode if he moved away to talk right now. His mouth is near the hood of your clit when he lets out that hum of reply, and oh, you feel it, and you let out a whimper of your own.

Ashe holds you closer as he intensifies his movements, hands kneading at the supple flesh of your ass. In no time at all you’re bending over to grip the headboard with your free hand, actively steadying your breaths in an effort to keep your head while that sparkling, white-hot feeling grows stronger and stronger still.

When you moan, his tongue answers. It’s all you can do not to buck up against his face. But you can’t stop yourself from moving to meet him, not entirely. He takes your movements in stride, making efforts to match your rhythm, erratic as it’s getting.

You don’t even notice one of his hands moving until it’s on your clit.

“A-ah,” you cry out in surprise, squeezing your eyes shut and letting your head fall. Blindly, your other hand grabs for the headboard. Ashe makes a sound at the loss of your hand in his hair, but doesn’t let up, not for a second. Your back arches up and you pant. You’re so close you can feel it, can see it burning bright behind your eyelids.

“Ashe, don’t stop, Ashe, Ashe,” you babble, letting the words spill out like water from a topped glass.

“Mmh,” he says against you, and that’s answer enough. He rolls your clit between his thumb and forefinger, one pressed on either side of its hood at the base. You keen as he licks his way up your opening from bottom to top, and—

when he sucks hard on your clit, still massaging it, you bite your lip to keep from shouting.

“Close, close,” you pant, “fuck, so close.”

You’re grinding in his mouth, and he pulls you fast against him, humming and sucking and doing all you could possibly ask of him. You breathe his name, and then you breathe it again, and again, louder and more desperate each time, until you only get as far as the first letter.

“A—”

You come quietly, but it’s loud and bright as fireworks inside of your head. Panting and breathless all at once, you arch backwards, holding tightly to the headboard but pushing back against it until your arms are fully extended.

Ashe guides you through it, then back down to Fódlan, taking cues from your breathing and slowing his ministrations accordingly. You blink down at him, feeling somewhat like you’re becoming a sentient creature again.

“What’s a nice boy like you doing in a place like this?” you quip lazily, your hands falling from the banister as you sit further back on his upper chest.

He looks at you with an almost straight face, though his blown-out pupils betray him. “Pleasing the Goddess,” he says innocently, his hands floating back to your thighs. “I know I don’t have a lot to offer, but I’ll do all I can.”

“Not a lot to offer? I can’t agree with that.” You think he’s going to argue, so you shuffle back just far enough that you can bend down to catch his lips in a kiss. That, in your opinion, is a much better use for his mouth than words of self-doubt. The taste of you on his tongue suits him, you muse as you lower your body further so that you’re lying chest to chest. He wraps his arms around you and holds you tight like he might never let you go.

However, he’s going to have to. You don’t even have to ask; the moment you start to pull away, he loosens his grip, opening his eyes to watch you in silent question. As you back up, you run your hands over his chest, taking in the movements of his muscles, the way he feels when he breathes.

Ashe props himself up on his elbows, never taking his eyes off you. He watches you like you’re some holy being of light, like he’s blessed to have you touch him. You wonder how, after all of your clandestine nocturnal meetings, he can still seem so disbelieving. Then again, he still catches you off guard regularly with his kindness, his sweetness, his earnestness, even something as simple as his beauty, so maybe you’re not in a great position to call that into question.

Lightly, you trail a finger down his stomach as you make a show of glancing between the chest and the bag, still sitting shoved off to the side. His muscles flutter under your fingertip, though you can’t be sure if it’s owing to your touch or anticipation.

Wordlessly, you climb off him to pick up the bag and place it on the floor, then turn your attention back on the chest. You unlatch it and pull open the lid before unceremoniously dumping its contents on the bed. Ashe sits up as you leave the bed to place the chest out of the way. When you turn back, you find him holding the harness, studying its fastenings as he worries at his bottom lip.

Rejoining him, you scoop up the little vial of oil that tumbled out with the harness. “You know,” you say, and your voice is hoarser than you remember, “this does look nicer than what I already had, even if it’s just the bottle itself.”

“Is that so?” he replies. His cheeks are glowing red, and the way he looks at the harness is almost too studious.

Putting the vial back down, you cover his hand in yours. He startles.

“Nervous?”

“No!” he says, perhaps automatically, because he corrects himself a second later. “Ah, maybe a little.” He chuckles quietly. “But it’s not bad! And I, uh, know what you’re going to ask, and yes, I still want this.”

He tears his eyes from the harness to stare into your own, and the truth burning in his wide pupils is a hard thing to dispute.

You put your hands up in surrender in precisely the way you couldn’t earlier. “Am I that predictable?”

“You’re a lot of things, but I wouldn’t say predictable is one of them.” His gaze softens.

“Just a lucky guess, then?”

He leans in close enough for his breath to ghost across your lips. “Lucky is right.” You meet him halfway for a brief kiss. When you part, you reach to take the harness from him.

To put it on, you have to get off the bed and stand. Getting Ashe to help you with the buckles does cross your mind, but for now you just want it on and ready as soon as possible. Once it’s secure, you look back at him. His eyes are wider than before, if that’s even possible. You think it shouldn’t be possible.

“Like what you see?” you ask, climbing over him and pushing him into his back, glancing at his dick bobbing against his stomach as much as his hungry eyes.

“More than I can sa— ah!” He keens when your wooden length brushes against his erection.

You smile, dropping a kiss to his forehead before situating yourself between his legs. Blindly, you feel around behind you for the vial of oil, and he props himself up on his elbows.

“Perhaps you should lie back,” you suggest, bottle in hand.

“Maybe so,” he says, shuffling his feet back at your hand’s encouragement. “But it’s nice, being able to watch you.”

Warming the oil in your palm, you say “whatever you like.” You spread the oil on your fingers, then place a steadying hand on his inner thigh, causing his breath to stutter. You look up at him questioningly.

“I, ah, think my heart skipped a beat,” he explains. “I’m fine, Byleth. Please.”

You nod in understanding. When your thumb skates over his entrance his breathing stumbles again, and the ring of muscle involuntarily twitches at your touch.

“I haven’t done this before,” you warn him softly. “I know the theory, but please, stop me if it doesn’t feel right.”

His answer comes quickly. “It’s okay. I’ve— uh, it’s okay.”

“Alright,” you say, sliding the hand on his thigh to his hipbone. “As long as you’re sure.”

Carefully, gently, you push your index finger inside. His sharp inhale has you freeze with concern, and you notice he’s gripping the sheets below.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” he assures you before you have time to ask. “It’s just…”

“Yes?” you prompt, softly stroking the skin of his hip with your thumb.

Ashe swallows. “I-it’s different when it’s someone else’s fingers.”

“It is,” you say with a smile. “Good different?”

“Strange, but… good different, I think.”

“Mm, good,” you say, kissing the inside of his thigh. The corner of your lip quirks up when you hear him gasp. “Let me know if that changes, okay?”

“I-I will. You can, ah, move, if you like.”

Humming your assent, you kiss him again, and again, while you start to slowly work your finger in and out. It’s little by little at first, your tiniest movements matched by his tiniest of gasps. He clenches around you at the slightest thing, and you pay close attention, making sure his seemingly positive reactions stay that way.

Ashe is still half-sitting, held up by his elbows. Arms that once were steady now shake at your ministrations, and you pretend not to notice the way his fingers knead the sheets. More than once, you catch his eye, and only once, he looks away.

Your mouth ventures higher, to the crease where his leg meets his hip. When you nibble at the skin, he groans, his head lolling back as his chest heaves deeply.

“Beautiful,” you murmur, crooking your finger, twisting his groan into a whine. Your eyes dance over him as you repeat the movement. The way his taut stomach rises and falls is transfixing. Not to mention his dick. Right there, untouched and fully hard and dripping.

With a warning smirk that he doesn’t see, you swipe the shining bead of pre-cum from his tip with your tongue.

Ashe yelps. His head shoots up and his hands ball into fists. Panting, he stares down at you. You look back with half-lidded eyes and a lazy smile. After a moment, he lets out a shaky sigh, closing his eyes and nodding.

Your hand wanders up his torso until it sits centrally on his chest. “Lie back and relax, Ashe,” you instruct.

Exhaling through his nose, he complies without a word.

“Good boy,” you croon. “You’re doing so well. So good for me.”

It’s hard to decide which of his responses you like more, the way his cock twitches or his soft, muffled laugh. When you start moving your finger again, his breathing picks up.

“Was it too much?” you ask him.

“Mm-mm,” he answers, which you understand as a clear ‘no, it wasn’t’, but you’d like him to elaborate.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t quite catch that.” You crook your finger and he chokes down a moan. “Be a dear and say it again?”

“Not too much,” he says, swallowing hard. “You surprised me, is all.”

“Hmm. That’s a relief,” you say. Your hand trails back down his chest, over outlines of rib and muscle, down below his navel. “Do you want me to avoid such surprises in future?”

You know the answer before it leaves his mouth. “No,” he stammers. “No, I don’t.”

Stroking the side of his entrance with your middle finger, you ask “what do you want, then?”

“You,” he answers, faster and easier than you thought. Before you can ask for more detail, he fills the silence with fumbled elaboration. “Uh! That is. I want you to. Touch me?”

“But I am touching you,” you say, letting your fingers go still and dragging your free hand back away from his groin, settling it on his forearm where you idly trace a vein with your fingers.

Ashe fixes you with a petulant glare tinged with no small amount of frustration. You smirk openly.

“Tell me what you want, Ashe.” Your tone is close to sing-song.

“You,” Ashe says again, more decisively than last time. “I want your hand around me. I— I want you to stop teasing with your fingers. Stop taking it so slowly. Please.”

“Stop taking it so slowly?” you echo, wrapping your hand around the base of his dick. “And why do you want that?”

He stares into your eyes. “I want you to fuck me.”

Your organs do backflips at the boldness in his voice, but you don’t let it show. “Oh, is that what you’re angling for?” Pushing that second finger inside of him and slowly moving your hand up and down his length, loosening the grip as you near the top and clamping back down closer to the base, you watch his face as he lets out an unrestrained whimper that turns to a moan that you could swear almost turns to a growl.

“Profess—  _ orrr _ ,” he whines. But he whines it with an edge. You won’t lie, you’re fascinated. “I told you what I wanted.”

“That you did,” comes your airy reply as you scissor your fingers apart. “You’re very good like that.”

“F… for you,” he says.

“Just for me,” you murmur into his skin, licking a stripe up the side of his cock where your fingers don’t quite meet. His hips cant up haltingly, like he’s trying to stop himself, and he moans, which he definitely, blessedly does not try to stop. He does, however, throw an arm over his face, and as much as you’d like to watch his face for reactions, you allow him that.

Two fingers become three. He relaxes more and more around you, tension dissipating as his walls stretch to accommodate your digits. Your fingers pale in comparison to the size of your wooden appendage, but when you scissor and stretch them apart you don’t meet nearly the resistance you did when you’d started. You’ve been watching Ashe carefully for signs of pain, and so far, he’s shown none.

“Ashe,” you say, reaching up and guiding his arm from his face. “Do you think you’re ready?”

“Y-yes!” he answers, stumbling over the word in his haste to answer. “Yes. Please, Byleth. I’m ready. Please.”

“Alright, I believe you,” you say, half laughing, as you slide your fingers from him with a slick, wet sound.

Ashe winces from the loss, and goes up on his elbows once again as you sit back to smear oil on wood. He watches quietly as you go about your work, wetting his lips as you fist your hand up and down the toy’s length in a mimicry of what you were doing to him moments ago.

It’s not until you re-cork the vial that he speaks. “How do you want me?”

You can’t hide the breath that escapes you at his words. So you work with it, taking the extra seconds to drag your eyes over his body and your hand over your fake member until he’s squirming under the weight of your gaze. He makes a pretty picture, legs spread and bent either side of you, flushed all over, awaiting an answer with hungry, restless eyes.

“Exactly as you are,” you say, your voice low and rumbling as you lean down over him to catch his lips in a firm kiss. Ashe freezes at first, but quickly reciprocates, cupping your cheek with a tenderness at odds with the ferocity of the kiss.

When you pull back and look at him, he gazes up with such reverent adoration that your heart clenches. Evidently, you had the right answer.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he says, just above a whisper.

“As someone who just had their hand on your dick,” you begin with a wink, “believe me when I say I have at least some idea.”

He breathes a laugh. “Okay, okay. But ah, speaking of which… I don’t mean to be impatient, but…”

“But?” you prompt, already moving back and lining the wood up with his hole.

“I’m going to lose my mind if you don’t fuck me,” Ashe states, voice only wavering a little. “Please,” he adds, clearly an afterthought.

Carefully, you move your hips forward, pushing the wooden tip inside. Ashe gasps and winces, and you go still.

“I’m okay, I’m okay,” he assures you, reaching for the hand you’ve steadied on his hip.

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure. It’s just… uncomfortable, but I think it’ll pass.” Experimentally, he swivels his hips, but cuts the action short with a sharp intake of breath.

You say nothing, but you do raise your eyebrows in question, watching his face morph from discomfort to surprise to something a good measure nicer.

“Al… alright,” he says. He swallows. “You can keep going.”

Tightening your grasp on his hip, you comply, steadily forging forward until the toy is fully sheathed within him.

“ _ Hahh _ …” Ashe squeezes your hand. He closes his eyes and breathes deeply, steadily, like he’s focusing.

“All good?” you check, running your thumb along his hipbone.

“Y-yeah,” he answers, and you find yourself smiling. “Yeah, just… give me a minute.”

“I’ll give you two,” you say fondly.

He chuckles under his breath. “Generous,” he remarks before falling back into measured, even breaths. “Okay,” he says after a few inhales and exhales. “You can move.”

“I can, or you want me to?”

Ashe’s eyes open and he fixes them on yours. “I want you to. Please. Should I beg?” There’s a faint quirk tugging at the corner of his lip. You lean down and kiss it.

“No,” you say, moving your hips slowly backward. “I’ll be nice. You’ve earned it.”

You try to lean back (you hadn’t planned to go far) but his arms wrap around you like a hungry constrictor. No escape, then. That’s okay. That’s more than okay. Down here, you’re better positioned to hear all the little noises that barely make it out of his throat. You have to keep one arm on the bed to steady yourself, but you busy the other hand with carding through his hair.

“You’re doing really well,” you whisper in his ear before taking the bottom of the lobe into your mouth. He moans, and gets louder as you hit the peak of a thrust. You kiss him, your tongue exploring deep into his mouth, and he gives as good as he gets, pressing back against you and bringing a hand to the side of your face as he tries to match his rhythm to yours.

To your surprise, Ashe is the one to break the kiss. He tucks his head into the crook of your neck, panting in time with your thrusts. “Is this — hahh — good for you?”

“Of course,” you assure him, stroking his hair.

“Are you sure? Is there anything I can— ah—”

Thinking, you pat the arm he’s been keeping locked around you. “Let me go for a moment,” you say, pulling back when he obliges. He watches you with anticipation, face flushed and dewy with sweat. You run your hands up his legs and he shivers.

“How flexible are you?” you ask, one hand coming to a halt on his bent knee.

Ashe’s brows knit together for a moment. “That depends on what you want me to do.”

“Think you can hook your legs over my shoulders?”

“I-I’m not sure,” he admits. “But I’ll try!”

Warm fondness flows through you at the determination on his face. Reaching out to stroke his cheek, you say “of course you will.”

As it turns out, yes, Ashe very much can hook his legs over your shoulders.

“Hopefully this works for you,” you say, smirking as the realisation crosses his face.

“Wait, for me? I thought— oh, fuck.”

There it is. Mission accomplished. “I like making you swear,” you tease, running a hand up his chest, grinning as he gasps when it passes over a nipple. You keep your hips in place, opting to let him catch his breath before you hit that particular bundle of nerves again.

He laughs, breathless. “I like it when you make me swear,” he admits before laughing again.

You’re smiling wider than you’re used to, and you can’t help but let out a chuckle too. Impulse guides you to let your hand rest over his heart, feeling it racing. Something about the rapid beating warms you, but when you realise Ashe is giving you a quizzical look you shake it off and drag your hand lower. That, he seems less confused by.

He lets out a choked gasp as your fingers wrap around him. “Let me know how I’m doing, okay?”

How you’re doing seems to be ‘pretty well’ if his answering moan when you start moving again is anything to go by. With a firm hand, you work him up and down. You start off slow, moving your hips at a steady but unhurried pace, guided by his panting. He gazes up at you, half in adoration, half like his eyes don’t even work any more because the only sense left to him is touch. You think a shorter way of saying that might be ‘blissed out’, but it’s not an expression you’ve seen before, so how can you be sure? You’ll just have to see it again. As many times as possible, in fact. For science.

Ashe reaches out with unsteady hands, touching you wherever he can reach. Your belly, your breasts, the sides of your legs. His voice tumbles from him in time with your movement, soft but desperate moans and groans that spur you on better than any dance magic on the battlefield. Your free hand wanders over him, not quite mirroring his own movements. Where Ashe is imprecise and distracted, your fingers are measured and deliberate, every touch a considered thing meant either to map him out or make even more of a mess of him.

You’re trying to figure out which draws the better reaction from him: the back of your fingernails lightly running up the side of his neck, or catching a nipple between your thumb and forefinger and rolling it. Ashe settles the matter for you.

“Please,” he pants, hurriedly, like he might run out of time to say it and miss his chance entirely. “Keep— ahh— keep your hand there.” He tilts his head to the side and quite ineffectively nuzzles at your hand on his throat (you expect that’s not an easy task), but you get the message all the same.

“I will,” you assure him. You let your palm settle on his throat, and as he turns his head back up to look at you, you stroke his jawline with your thumb. 

“Thank you,” he says. Then he says it again. “Thank you. Thank you. ‘M close.”

You smile and sweep your thumb over his weeping slit. “Really? I couldn’t tell.”

“Byleth,  _ please _ ,” he groans. At least, you suppose he means to groan. It comes out as more of a hybrid of a whine and a moan.

“It’s alright, Ashe,” you say. “I’ve got you.” And then you fall silent. Nothing you could say could be as important as the noises he’s making now. You double-down on your concentration, expending every effort to help him chase that high.

It’s like its own kind of magic, watching as his breathing gets shallower, as his face responds so beautifully to your every movement. It’s a kind of magic, and you are enchanted. He gets quieter as he hurtles towards his peak, moans dying down to whimpers, and then again to harsh breaths.

“Byleth,” he whispers, then jerks as he comes.

You stop moving when he goes limp, waiting for his say-so before pulling out. Correction: you mostly stop moving. You keep running your thumb along his jaw.

He blinks up at you like his eyes are adjusting to the dark. “Wow,” he says, heaving a sigh and a laugh at once.

“Wasn’t that bad, then?”

“It was okay,” he quips back at you before laughing again.

“Glad you could put up with it,” you say, patting his knee. “Would you like your legs back?”

“Oh. Yeah. Maybe,” he says. Carefully, you disentangled from one another. He gives you the go-ahead to move back, and only winces a little as the toy is dragged out of him. You make sure he’s alright (he is), and quickly go about getting you both cloths to clean up a bit.

“You get giddy in the afterglow,” you observe some minutes later, lying with your head on his chest, where you’ve been able to feel every little giggle.

“Ah, I suppose I do,” he admits with another soft laugh. “How could I not?”

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Well, I’m not sure I have the words to explain it. I guess it’ll have to stay a mystery for now. Are you a fan of mysteries, Byleth?”

You snort. “You’re unusual, Ashe.”

“I’ve heard that one before,” he replies, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “I could say the same about you. Although, I’m not sure ‘unusual’ would quite cut it.”

“Oh? Too weird for words, am I?”

He laughs again, and as ever, it broadens your smile just a tad. “Theoretically, how much trouble would I be in if I said yes?”

Raising your eyebrows, you angle your head up to look at him. “Purely theoretically?”

“Completely and totally. I swear. Knight’s honour.”

Hand over his heart — because you’re on your side and can’t reach your own, so his works just as well — you put on the most sincere airs your husky voice can manage. “On your honour, good sir knight? In that case, I find I simply must take you at your word.” He bites down a snicker, and for a moment his heart is steadier than yours, which flutters. “Regardless of the truth behind your words, which unofficially some might say hold merit, to state what you’re definitely theoretically asking about would be quite a blasphemous assertion indeed. Appropriate action would have to be taken.”

“Oh, no! Not blasphemy,” he says as his hand runs from your scalp, through the length of your hair, then settles on your back where he moves his thumb in light, comforting circles. “I guess I’d better avoid calling any goddesses too weird for words. Or making mischief in holy places. You know, just as an example.”

It’s your turn to giggle. You stretch to kiss his collarbone, then keep kissing up and up until you’re at his ear. “Oh, but Ashe,” you begin.

“Oh— no, Byleth, no, I know that tone—”

“I love it when you make mischief in my holy places.” You nip his earlobe for good measure as he groans exaggeratedly.

“I should never, ever have cracked that one hairrible beard joke with you,” he says with the voice of a man of a thousand regrets. Which, of course, is a voice that sings to the evil little prankster in your heart.

“Is that so?” you ask as you settle your head back down on his chest, closing your eyes. “You wound me, Ashe.”

“Allow me to kiss it better,” he says, softly but playfully, as he kisses the top of your head again. And it must work, you think, because you get the best sleep you’ve had in weeks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we got here folks. we made it. we pegged ashe. as a community--
> 
> anyway next chapter is post-gronder so. that'll be fun. @moonberrytxt on twitter if u want to chat!!!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shortest chapter by a country mile, and staggeringly safe for work. also the first time i haven't expanded the total chapter estimation haha. thanks for coming along for the ride so far!

The battle at Gronder Field is a nightmare. That’s all there is to say about that.

Your forces make the return journey with a few more members than you’d arrived with, despite your losses. Some of these additions are temporary. Ingrid and Mercedes only convinced Felix to travel alongside you as far as the monastery by reasoning it was safer than trying to make it all the way back to Fraldarius on his own. They watch him with concern, like he’ll flee at any moment. You don’t disagree with them.

You and the rest of the Golden Deer alumni are caught between giving the surviving Lions space or words of comfort. It’s a tricky thing to balance. Ignatz sits quietly with Ingrid, a sketch pad and stick of charcoal in him lap, sketching children throwing snowballs and thwacking each other with the flats of wooden swords as Ingrid wistfully recounts times long past with a faraway look in her eyes. When she goes quiet mid-sentence, he understands, softly bidding her goodnight and making himself scarce.

Well past dinner time, you see the trio sitting in front of a fire with Ashe. You’re too far to hear anything, but one of their number doesn’t move their lips the whole time you watch. Felix hasn’t said a word to anyone since the end of the battle, if Hilda had the truth of it. You can’t say you’re surprised — you were there when Sylvain died, close enough to take in the details, too far to do a thing.

It wasn’t pretty. It was aimed at Felix.

“Wonderful, isn’t it? We really carved our names into the history books today.” You turn to see Claude’s sardonic smile as he offers you an apple, which you accept. “Ah, we truly are blessed, aren’t we?”

“Mm,” is all you can really offer in response. You’ve got nothing. Nothing that the dark circles under his eyes and the bubbling anger and despondency in his tone don’t already have covered.

“Well said, Teach. Well said.” He sighs, looking to the ground and ruffling his hair with a gloved hand before raising an apple of his own in a toast. “To the excitement of war,” he says, deadpan. “To all the useless death and bloodshed. May history glorify every last drop.”

You touch your apple to his. “To the Blue Lions,” you say quietly.

Something in his face cracks. Far be it from you to call him on it. “Yeah,” he says, volume closer to yours. “I like that one better, Teach.”

It’s late by the time you get around to returning to your tent. You’re tired, and it stands to reason sleep should come quickly when you invite it, but you wait and you wait and it doesn’t have the courtesy to show up.

“By... Professor? Are you awake?”

It’s a good thing you couldn’t sleep, you decide. In a heartbeat you’ve thrown a robe over your sleep clothes, slipped into simple shoes and opened the flap of your tent to find Ashe waiting.

To ask if he’s okay seems like a waste of breath. More importantly, you don’t want to make him verbalise that he’s not. It’s cruel, you think, that one awful day can make a person look like they haven’t slept in weeks. You want to reach out and comfort him, touch your palm to his cheek, hold him close and tell him it’s alright, you’re his friend and you’re there for him, but you’re in the middle of camp.

“I hope I didn’t wake you,” he says, and his voice is so small.

You shake your head. “Not at all.” It’s a small gesture, not nearly enough, but you touch his arm and offer a smile, as warm as you can manage. You’re tired, too.

Ashe closes his eyes, putting a hand over yours and holding it there. For a moment, he says nothing, but then he swallows and looks at you again. “Would you take a walk with me, Professor?” He drops his hand.

“Of course,” you answer without hesitation. “Lead the way.”

He hesitates enough for the both of you. “You don’t need to change?”

You shake your head. The night is warm enough, and if you wander too far from your host and something should go awry, you’ve always got your magic. It’s no Sword of the Creator, but it’ll do in a pinch.

“O-okay,” he says. “I didn’t have anywhere in particular in mind. I just need to clear my head.”

“That’s fine. I’ll follow,” you tell him, falling into step beside him.

You do wander away from camp. Some people notice you. No one stops you. As long as you’re back by the time the caravan packs up to move, hale and healthy as you were when you left, where’s the harm?

You’ll probably get an earful when Seteth finds out, actually. You worry the poor man sick, you know that.

“It’s much quieter out here,” Ashe says, face turned skywards.

You hum in agreement. It’s nice. Today, you realise, has been a nonstop barrage of noise, and the constant stimuli have worn you down. Out here with just Ashe (who couldn’t wear you down if he tried), you’re almost surprised by how easily the biggest, omnipresent troubles can appear small and far away if you look at them from the right perspective.

You hook your arm around his.

He startles, inhaling sharply. When he looks at you, his eyes are wide, but his expression quickly softens as he accepts the contact and sidles closer to you.

“Sorry,” he says, laughing more loudly than you’d have expected. “I forgot we were alone. And I guess I’m a little on edge after...”

“It’s okay, Ashe.”

He shakes his head and smiles weakly. “Thanks.” And that’s all he says for a while, the two of you walking in silence, drifting aimlessly among the fields, the smokey beacon of camp waiting to guide you back at your leisure. The night is cool. Not unpleasantly so, but enough that you think that perhaps you should have followed Ashe’s suggestion and changed into something more suitable.

You slip your arm from his and snake it around his waist instead.

“O-oh,” he says as you hold close to his side. He drapes an arm over your shoulder as the two of you stop walking. “Sorry, are you cold?”

Since you’ve stopped anyway, you turn to embrace him fully, pressing up against him and enjoying the bubbles of warmth rising within you as he folds you into his arms automatically. “Don’t apologise. It’s my own fault.”

“If you say so,” he says, running an open, gloved palm up and down your back. “Maybe we should head back.”

“We don’t have to,” you say.

“But we will sooner or later,” he counters. You suppose that’s true.

“If you’d like, then.” You release him hesitantly and take a step back, now-free hands wrapping around yourself instinctively. Before you process what he’s doing, before you can stop him, he shrugs off his coat and lays it over your shoulders.

“There,” he says with a faint smile and a fainter blush.

“You don’t have to,” you half-heartedly protest, traitorous fingers already clutching tight at the fabric and drawing it close around you.

He shakes his head, looking down at you with so much fondness that it’s almost warmer than the coat itself. “And let you stand there shivering? I couldn’t do that.”

“No, I suppose you couldn’t,” you say, and you surprise yourself when you realise your cheeks are warming up faster than the rest of you.

Ashe opens his mouth as if to say something, but hesitates. It’s not until you look at him, brows raised in question, that he speaks. “I was just thinking... you look good in my clothes.”

It’s a wonder that you were cold just moments ago. How quickly things change. “What a coincidence,” you say, dragging your eyes up and down his form and trying not to let it show that wow he really is taller than you, and it’s hitting you as you comfortably drown in a coat far too large for you, still warm from his body heat, “so do you.”

“You can’t keep saying things like that,” he says to you, and it’s about as convincing as Hilda playing sick back in your early days at the Officer’s Academy.

“Strange, I thought I could,” you tease with a smile. Ashe smiles back, but his smile turns sad and you think you may have misstepped. “Should I stop?”

He nods. “For tonight, at least. Please. Sorry.”

Placing a hand on his shoulder, you tell him “you have nothing to be sorry for.”

Ashe covers your hand with his and stays quiet for a moment. You’re about to ask if he wants to head back when he inhales with intent.

“Can I stay with you tonight?” he asks, pushing the words out quickly, like they might dry up if he takes too long to say them.

Your immediate reflex is to say yes, but. “In the middle of camp? Ashe, you’re not worried about anyone seeing?” Or hearing, you don’t say.

“I...” he starts, nodding, then frowning as he finds the words. “I’ve thought a lot about it. People coming to their own conclusions. And I realised that what they think isn’t what matters. B-but, ah, before you say anything...”

When he trails off, you want to prompt him with a ‘yes, Ashe?’, but ah, that would be saying something, wouldn’t it? So you just watch and wait.

“When I say I want to stay with you, I really do just mean stay. No, ah, ulterior motives here. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve heard many of the soldiers talking about, uh, their blood being up after a battle,” (you quite gracefully do not call attention to his blush) “and I don’t mean to pass judgement on them, but... I think I’m the furthest from that a person can be, to be honest.” He chuckles, or tries to, but it’s more a sigh than anything else. When he continues, he looks you in the eye, and his voice is small enough that it seems to mitigate the gap between your heights. “I just don’t want to be alone right now.”

You reach for his hands and take them in your own, then pull him forward for a hug. “Then don’t be,” you say, stroking his back. “Stay with me. I’m here for you.”

“Are you sure?” he asks, holding you tighter despite the question. “It’s not what we... I don’t want to overstep.”

That seems to you a strange thing to worry about, but you aren’t about to question it. “It’s alright, Ashe.”

He ducks his head and you feel him smiling against your hair. “Thank you,” he murmurs, and even as close as you are you barely hear it.

You arrive back at camp still wearing Ashe’s coat. More murmurs and deliberate looks are thrown your way than when you’d left, and at first you think that’s a bit of an overreaction to what the coat probably implies. Then you catch sight of Seteth, speaking sternly with a couple of soldiers, worry clear on his face. You aren’t close enough to hear his words but you get to see him stop mid-word as he takes notice of you.

Okay, wow. You knew he’d worry if he caught wind of your little excursion, but this is excessive. You’re an adult. The Ashen Demon, in fact, with the powers of the Goddess at your disposal. It isn’t that dangerous for you to go for a walk with a friend. After a battle. Unarmed. In very recently captured enemy territory. As a leader with a large target on her head.

Look, you’ll apologise.

The tension visibly falls away from Seteth’s shoulders as he pinches the bridge of his nose, dismissing the soldiers. He looks two parts pissed-off to three parts relieved. You wave with what you hope is an apologetic smile as you loop your arm back around Ashe’s and tug him along.

Evidently Seteth hadn’t had enough time to truly raise the alarm, as you find yourselves mercifully unswarmed by concerned friends as you wind your way back to your tent. Had they been told you’d allegedly gone missing, they’d be out in force, to say the least. As it is, the only one of the Deer you can see is Claude, who silently winks at you from a distance as you lead Ashe to your tent. You stick your tongue out at Duke Riegan, leader of the Leicester Alliance, before disappearing inside.

While you usually think it’s rather unnecessary, tonight you’re grateful for being afforded one of the roomiest tents in the company, owing to your position. It’s no mansion (thankfully — that would be wasteful), but there’s room enough for the two of you to move around without hindering each other. Which is ironic given you find yourselves just standing there, looking at each other and averting your eyes awkwardly in equal measure like a pair of shy teenagers.

“I’m going to lie down,” you decide aloud, trying to use your own words to spur yourself into action. You find that you don’t actually want to shrug Ashe’s coat off, that your fingers resist as you uncurl them from where they’ve held to the material tightly enough to leave light wrinkles, that your unbeating yet opinionated heart protests as you step out of its warmth. Either way, you fold it up and put it aside. A moment later and your dressing robe meets the same fate.

You glance back at Ashe and find him frozen. As if the weight of your gaze was a physical thing, he startles, blinking and smiling sheepishly. His hands fly to his top and he unfastens it hurriedly.

“Lost in thought?” you ask, turning away to get settled under the blankets of your cot. It’s smaller than your bed back at the monastery. You’re not sure how comfortable a fit it’ll be for two people.

He’s stepping out of his pants when you roll over to face him again. “Yeah, something like that,” he says. You wait for him to elaborate. He doesn’t. Either way, he joins you under the covers, and your one-person cot is suddenly crowded and warm.

“Is this alright?” Ashe asks softly, draping an arm over your waist.

Touching your forehead to his, you hum in the affirmative. He lets his fingers ghost across your back, and you toss an arm around him in turn.

“You’re still awake,” you observe after what could have been a few minutes as easily as an hour.

“Yeah,” he says with a sigh. “I don’t know that I’ll be able to sleep.”

Your hand finds his face, and Ashe leans into your touch as your thumb strokes soft lines on his cheek. “In that case, we’ll have to load you up on a wagon tomorrow, and you can sleep a leg of the journey away with the equipment.”

He lets out a puff of air that might just pass for a laugh under charitable judgment. “As long as I get to rest, I don’t think I have the right to complain about that.”

“Or,” you say, “you could join me on my horse.”

“Now, I definitely wouldn’t complain about that.”

“Good, then it’s settled. Fail to sleep to your heart’s content.”

Ashe sighs, but it isn’t a heavy thing. “You know, I’d much rather lie awake here with you than alone in my tent.”

A fuzzy warmth blossoms in your chest, unfurling its petals like a flower in the morning sun. “You’re sweet, Ashe.”

“I’m just speaking my mind,” he says in hushed tones. “Things are better, when...”

You wait, but the words don’t come. “When?”

Under your hand, you feel his face tilt just the slightest bit away. You can’t tell what he’s thinking, what he’s feeling, but on the off-chance your touch has made him uncomfortable, you draw your hand away.

“I try so, so hard to be brave, but maybe I’m just a coward.”

It hits a little like a bucket of cold water to the face. “What?” you exclaim a little too loudly for the circumstance. He cringes away, so you take care to lower your voice. “Ashe, that’s ridiculous.”

“It’s nice that you think so, but no. It really isn’t.”

“It is,” you insist. “What brought this on? I don’t understand.”

“I shouldn’t have brought it up — I didn’t mean to worry you. I’m just so exhausted, I’m not thinking clearly.”

“You can’t be thinking clearly if you think you’re a coward. Did something happen on the battlefield?”

He shakes his head. “No, it’s not about— it’s mostly not about that. Though... no, never mind.”

“Ashe,” you say, bringing your hand back up to his head so that you can comb his fringe out of his face with your fingers, “don’t hold back on my account. If you don’t want to talk about it, that’s okay, but if you speak, I’ll listen.”

Ashe’s eyes slide closed as your fingers glide through his hair. He’s clearly had time to rinse and run a brush through it since mid-afternoon’s events, but it’s still somewhat dirty from battle. You don’t care.

“Am I a traitor?” he asks.

“No,” you say automatically.

He breathes a sigh of relief. “I knew you’d say that, but I really needed to hear it.”

“I’ll say it again, if you like. Ashe, you’re not a traitor.”

A glimmer of a smile on his tired face sets your still heart leaping. “Thanks, Byleth. Even if I still feel like one, it... it means a lot, coming from you.”

“It’s just the truth,” you state. “Why do you feel that way?”

A pregnant pause passes before he answers, and when he does, it’s a halting, unsure thing. “His Highness died today, and I wasn’t even fighting for the same side as him.” He swallows hard. “That’s a terrible place to start, I think, but it keeps playing out over and over again in my head. I keep seeing it... what kind of a knight can I ever hope to be if I didn’t even defend the rightful king of Faerghus?”

There’s a twinge in your stomach, but you try not to let it show. “Do you regret joining us?”

“No!” he says quickly. “Goddess, no. Not at all. But... I suppose that’s it, isn’t it? I feel like I’m in the right place, and that just feels so... wrong. Those brave men and women fighting and dying for Faerghus... I wasn’t one of them. Despite my past, despite Lonato taking my siblings and I in out of the kindness of his heart, I fought for the Leicester Alliance, and for...” Ashe’s eyes bore into your for the most fleeting of moments before he looks away again. “And I’d do it again, in a heartbeat. That’s what bothers me. It’s the same with House Rowe — even when they declared for the Empire, I fought under their banners. We didn’t have to battle very often, but when we did, I killed soldiers loyal to Faerghus. All that mattered to me was keeping my siblings safe and fed, with a roof over their heads, and it seemed like the only way I could guarantee it.”

“That still doesn’t make you a traitor.”

“Are you sure? I changed sides again pretty quickly at Ailell. N-not that I regret it, of course! I just... I shouldn’t feel so okay with it, should I?”

“So you’re feeling guilty because you don’t feel guilty?”

He groans into the pillow. “I know how it sounds, but yes.”

“You’re a strange one, Ashe,” you say with affection.

“So I’ve been told.”

“I don’t think you actually changed sides though, not really.”

Ashe blinks. “Uh, Byleth?”

“Hear me out,” you say. “You don’t seem to realise whose side you’ve been on all along. Even back at the academy, you were always talking about looking out for your siblings. That, or doing Lonato proud, or just doing what’s right and protecting people who need it. You’ve always been on the side of people you care about, and on the side of justice, and I can’t see you betraying either one.

“You did what you had to to keep your family safe, and now you’re here, fighting for a better future for them, and for anyone else who can’t fight for it themselves. Staying true to the people you love doesn’t sound very traitorous to me.”

Ashe stares at you for a moment, lips slightly parted, and you nearly ask if you’ve said something wrong. When he breaks into a wide smile, happier than any expression you’ve seen on him for days, you’re glad you didn’t.

“You’re right,” he says, holding you tighter. “You’re right, Byleth.” There’s a sonorous quality to his voice you can’t quite place until he sniffles and—

“Ashe, are you crying?” Gently as anything, you bring the back of your crooked finger just right of his eye and find wetness there.

“Sorry, sorry,” he sniffs, and then he laughs, which is like chicken soup for your ears. “It’s been a long day.”

“It’s alright,” you assure him, resting your head against his shoulder and letting your eyes slip shut.

“I just... with all those worries, with everything going on, I never thought to look at it like that.”

“Too busy looking down on yourself to see it any other way,” you mumble against him.

“Hah, you’re probably right. What you said, I think... I think it’s something I can hold onto when it’s hard to believe in myself.” He clutches tighter to your sleep shirt. “I’m here for those I love. And that’s not going to change.”

You’ve barely set foot on the premises of Garreg Mach when a messenger informs you that Seteth would like to speak with you, and that if you could make your way to his office at your earliest convenience, that would be most appreciated.

“Oooooooh, the Professor’s in trouble,” Hilda sings.

“You’d know what that’s like,” you return, and she affects the mightiest, most offended gasp this side of Fódlan’s Locket.

“Professor! I’ll have you know that I am an angel.” Her pout is almost convincing.

“Of course. My mistake.”

“Besides, I never played hooky with boys.”

“Ah, ‘boys’. An important qualifier, that one,” says Claude, sidling up beside Hilda, who tries to bat him away as he ruffles her hair. “Don’t get expelled, Teach.”

“No promises,” you say, contemplating just how fast the rumour mill turns.

“Ah, Byleth, welcome,” says Seteth as you press his office door closed behind yourself. He gestures to the empty seat opposite him. “Thank you for making the time to see me so promptly. Care for some tea?”

You would, actually. When you nod he pours you a cup, which you gratefully take once you’re seated.

“I trust you’ve some idea of what I wish to speak with you about,” Seteth says, right to the point.

You answer after a moment. “Playing hooky.”

“Playing hooky,” he repeats.

“It means—“

Seteth holds up a hand. “I have worked in a school since you were but a child, Byleth. I am aware. It is just not the kind of terminology I’d thought to hear from you. Nonetheless, you are correct.”

With nothing else to add, you say “okay.”

He nods, then goes on. “Believe me, Byleth, I know well the struggles of trying to steal precious moments of peace and solitude with those you care for amidst the chaos of war.”

Arithmetics aren’t your forté. Still, you put two and two together. “Your wife.”

Seteth nods, solemn as ever. “Yes. If I may be honest, I do not know quite how I ever survived such drawn out conflicts before she came into my life. I had my brothers and sisters, yes, but... alas, that is neither here nor there.”

Arithmetics are still not your forté, but Seteth isn’t that old, and childlike as Flayn may be, she’s not exactly a baby. “You started fighting young,” you say.

“In a manner of speaking, yes,” he replies. “As did you, I’m given to understand.”

You nod. He knows as much of your story as you do. Possibly, frustratingly, more.

“When first we met, I’d have dismissed out of hand any suggestion that we might share so many commonalities.”

“You’re not alone in that,” you admit.

“I suspected as much,” he says. “You may think me old, starchy and unfeeling—“

“I don’t think you’re unfeeling,” you cut in, sipping at your tea.

To your surprise, the corner of his lip quirks upwards. “You may think me old and starchy, but I too have been in love.”

Seteth’s probably the first person in the world to see the so-called Ashen Demon choke on tea. As you scramble to wipe the liquid away and hide your reddening face, he automatically hands you a napkin, looking only somewhat affronted.

“I must beg your pardon,” he says, (more than somewhat) stiffly. “I had not realised you would find that so... unbelievable.”

“No, no, that’s not it,” you assure him, and you’re pretty sure your voice is muffled by the napkin which you’re half hiding in, but you can’t bring yourself to care. Not when you’ve just choked on tea in surprise like some kind of children’s book character. You try to look back up at Seteth to gauge his reaction, but you’re caught coughing again.

“I’ll fetch you some water,” he says, and before you can protest he stands and sweeps from the room, leaving you and your mortification alone to duke it out. Groaning, you fold your arms on the desk, resting your head on them and pretending not to exist, trying to cough away the nagging tickle in your throat.

Seteth returns some minutes later with a pitcher of water and a couple of glasses. He takes care of the pouring — which is probably a good idea right now, you think — and when he hands the glass to you you take it with all the patience of a man stranded in the desert.

“Thank you,” you say quietly after gulping the glass’ contents in one go. “Sorry.”

“It is quite alright,” Seteth tells you. “I fear I may be the one who owes you an apology, in fact. I had not considered how you might feel about your affections being addressed so bluntly.”

“I’m not in love with him,” you insist, quickly, as if to pull an arrow from a wound in one swift tug. Something nags at your gut as you say it, and you guess it’s from having to correct a friend again (over tea, no less), but that explanation feels off.

You think, perhaps, that you should stick to tactics. Leave this ‘people’ business to someone else.

“Byleth,” Seteth says with a softness to his voice that wasn’t there before. “I realise I am not your first choice of confidant, but I hope you know you can trust me with anything.”

“I’m telling the truth. I’m not in love with Ashe,” you repeat for emphasis. “We’re just good friends. Who... share a bed sometimes.” Two things occur to you at once. One: you would really rather be having any other conversation right now. Two: ‘sometimes’ seems insufficient.

Seteth looks at you for a moment, and you don’t quite know him well enough to know what he’s thinking. “In that case,” he ends up saying, “you have my sincerest apologies for broaching a subject that is well and truly none of my business.”

“It’s alright,” you mumble, taking a sip of cold tea just to give your hands something to do.

“My reasoning for calling you in here stands, however,” he goes on. “You are not a child, Byleth, and as such I will not scold you.” He clasps his hands on the table. “However, I will strongly caution you against such recklessness going forward. It may seem like nothing, but to leave yourself to vulnerable to attack is foolish. To lose you would deal a heavy blow to our chances, without even mentioning what it would do to those who care about you.”

“Understood,” you say, feeling very much like a scolded child after all.

  
  


“You spared us,” is the first thing Felix says to you, days after your return to Garreg Mach. “Why?”

“You were never our enemy, Felix,” you tell him, letting your attention drift from the training dummy you were giving a hard time a moment ago.

“Wrong.” He stares at you. At your shoulder, mind. He never does meet your eye. “We fought against you. Killed your soldiers. Watered Gronder’s grass with their blood, same as any Imperial soldier. Most of them are dead, yet we’re still alive. Why?”

“They were our enemy and you were not,” you say evenly. You hope, probably in vain, that the slight rewording might satisfy whatever criteria Felix has in his head for an answer.

It doesn’t.

“We were,” he insists.

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” you tell him. “Are you upset about being alive?”

He looks at you like you couldn’t possibly be any stupider. “No,” he scowls. “What I want you to say is the truth.”

“I already have.” Your patience is wearing about as thin as the hessian of the training dummy’s outside layer.

Evidently, Felix feels the same. “You’re impossible,” he grumbles after a second of staring you down. Then, in a testament to how much he must have changed in the years since you know him, he turns on his heel and leaves the training grounds without so much as touching a weapon.

The next day brings a somewhat easier to navigate conversation.

“Professor!”

You look up from your simple breakfast of toast to find Ingrid looking over the table at you.

“I’ve been meaning to speak with you. May I join you?”

You nod, not trusting yourself to speak around a mouthful of toast.

“Thank you,” she says, pulling out the chair opposite you and setting her own impressively full plate on the table.

You swallow. “Not a problem. What do you need?”

“Well, to thank you, first and foremost. The battle at Gronder Field was... chaotic, to put it lightly.” She winces. “And, bad as it was, were it not for the way you comported yourself, it could have been a lot worse. You did your best to keep not only your own soldiers alive, but also those of us following His Highness. For that, I am... no, all of us are grateful. Even if some of us don’t show it very well.”

“You don’t need to thank me for that.”

“Yes, I do,” she says, firmly but warmly. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” you tell her, and her shoulders relax just the slightest bit.

When next she speaks, Ingrid is smiling. “It gladdens me to see you’re not wanting for food, here. Not any more, at least. I’ve been brought up to speed on how long you’ve been here — it must have been a struggle to begin with.”

You speak of food for a while, but it’s not long before you say “Felix is angry at me and I don’t know why.”

Ingrid smiles sympathetically. “Don’t blame yourself, Professor. These last few days have been... trying for all of us, to put it lightly. I’m certain he’s just lashing out.”

“He kept asking why we spared all of you, but I don’t see why we wouldn’t.”

“Ah.” Ingrid’s lips draw into a thin line as she puts down a spoonful of omelette. “He mentioned something similar to me when I tried to talk to him. I told him we can still help with your fight against the Empire, even if our own is... we’ve our weapons, our training, even our names and crests, should any of those prove useful to you.”

“We’ll take all the help we can get,” you say. “What did Felix think of that?”

“Honestly, I have no idea,” she answers with a sigh. “He did tell me in no uncertain terms to leave him alone, and I wasn’t going to deal with him if he was going to be like that.”

“Fair.”

“Glad you see it my way.”

The conversation drifts back to easier matters — the stables, food (again), how friends are doing. Mercedes drifts to your table, then away again upon realising she’d only put on a single earring. And then she drifts back, and you find yourself forgetting about the war, about battles and bloodshed and losing friends on all sides, about anger out of nowhere and whatever else the world sees fit to throw at you, if only momentarily.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> seteth: i was in a similar situation to you and ashe  
byleth: ah i see. with yr wife who you loved  
seteth: yes. anyway you love ashe  
byleth: exaggeratedly cartoonish 'ooooowhaaaaat?????????'


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> have this ten thousand word monster. god

It’s late, but not that late. Most of the monastery’s inhabitants have shut themselves away in their rooms for the evening, but stragglers still wander here and there, going about their business under the cover of a cloudy night. Much like you.

You push open the door to the training grounds to find them as empty as you’d expected. Good. Your spellwork’s been a little off lately, and no one needs to see you missing targets.

Elemental magic doesn’t come as naturally to you as swinging a sword. Healing? Sure. You’ve got that down. It’d be great if you could provide aid at a distance like Marianne (or Mercedes) or clap your hands and help out every ally in earshot like Flayn (or, again, Mercedes), but you can grab your nearest friend and fix them right up in a pinch and that’s an asset you can’t believe you went so many years without.

Still. No amount of congratulating yourself on your Faith magic prowess is going to fix your fuzzy aim with its offensive cousin. With that in mind, you start dragging training dummies into the field.

You’re the proud creator of a decent amount of scorch-marks when you hear the telltale creaking of the doors opening behind you.

“I hope I’m not interrupting,” Ashe says, standing half in the doorway like he can’t decide whether he should stay or go.

He’s interrupting at least a little, your rational mind tells you. “Not at all,” you say, ignoring it entirely. “I was just finishing up.” No, you weren’t.

“Oh, no, don’t stop on my account.” He takes that decisive step through the threshold and shuts the door behind himself. “I was coming back from the library a few minutes ago and saw you heading in here, so I thought I’d grab some snacks, because you’d probably get hungry after training, and... ah, it sounds a little silly now that I’m saying it aloud, doesn’t it?”

“Not to me,” you answer honestly, wiping sweat from your brow as you abandon the dummies in favour of Ashe.

He chuckles, holding a sandwich out towards you. “Well, I’m glad to hear that.”

The two of you sit on the raised step that leads to the dusty ringed ground, him following your lead. It’s only when you take that first bite that you realise that yeah, you were actually pretty hungry.

“Mm,” you let out, before reminding yourself to swallow. “Thanks, Ashe.”

He doesn’t quite beam, but his smile lights up the night regardless. “It was nothing, really.”

“Pretty tasty kind of nothing,” you say, and his answering laugh brings a smile to your face.

You get to chatting, and given where you are, the conversation naturally drifts to combat techniques. It occurs to you that you’re glad Ashe is nearly always at range, out of the thick if the action. It then occurs to you that that’s a little weird. You have so many friends who fight up close, and you don’t worry about them to any inordinate degree. Ashe is just as competent as them.

“Have you been keeping up with your axe training?” you ask.

“Where did that come from?” he asks, but he goes on to answer nonetheless. “I have. Not as often as I’d like, admittedly, but it still comes in handy. I can defend myself just fine, if that’s what you’re asking. There’s no need to worry about me.”

You stand, holding out a hand to him. “Care to prove it?”

“Uh, excuse me?” he asks, taking your hand and letting you pull him to his feet.

“Spar with me,” you suggest, already heading to the rack of training weapons. “Unless you’re too tired. It’s late, after all.”

Ashe chuckles. “Is that a challenge?” You hear him follow you across the dusty ground, and when you turn back toward him, training axe in hand, he’s there to take it.

“If you want it to be,” you reply airily, pondering which weapon you should choose before ultimately defaulting to the sword. Ashe eyes your choice, but says nothing.

You shrug. “If you’re going to prove anything, it should be against my best,” you reason.

“You do know this won’t be a fair fight, right?” he asks, adjusting his grip and readying his stance anyway.

“All’s fair in love and war,” you return. You point your sword his way and his eyes go wide. His mouth opens just slightly as he inhales, then he licks his lips.

“Byleth...”

“Last I checked, the whole continent was at war.” And you run at him. Ashe gives a yelp of surprise, but parries your blade with a sweeping swing. The swing is too wide, and the momentum forces him to follow through, giving you an opening to almost strike him before he pulls back, pivoting on his heel to face you again.

With a grunt, he twists the turn to his advantage, throwing the force into another swing that takes aim at your side.

“Predictable,” you say, darting back before springing forward off the balls of your feet, readying another swipe. In the nick of time, he angles himself so that the edge of your blade bounces off a part of his flank that you know would be armoured and protected in an actual fight. Right now though, he’s in civilian clothes, and though your blade isn’t sharp, it still smarts. He winces as he steps back, axe held in front of himself defensively, and for one moment, one silly moment, you nearly apologise.

He lunges, arcing the wooden axe down at you, and it’s so close you feel it part the air as you barely, barely dodge.

“Darn,” he puffs, dancing back away from your own weapon. “I thought I had you for a minute there.”

“You nearly did,” you admit. For every step he retreats, you advance.

“I did?” Parry. “Really?”

The clack of wood against wood. A scrape. “Really,” you confirm. “Don’t count on things happening the same way in the field, though. Your opponent isn’t going to hesitate if they think they’ve hurt you.”

He fumbles for the briefest of moments, but his grip is secure again before you can even try to knock his axe from his hands. “Then you shouldn’t either,” he counters. He swings at your blade, but you knock him away easily. “I don’t want you to hesitate.”

So you lunge forward, sweeping his ankle out from under him. Ashe grabs the fabric of your sleeve and yanks, and despite your good balance, you tumble down with him. He tries to roll, to get out from under you and turn your position to his advantage, but you cage him in with your body, straddling his waist and pinning a wrist above his head.

Both of his hands still hold the axe, and he tries to use its handle to give him the leverage to free his wrist. But you hold your sword at his neck. “Drop it,” you command, and he can do nothing but obey.

“Do you yield?” you ask, the tip of the dull wooden blade just barely making a divot in the skin of his throat. You feel the sword move as he swallows.

“You’re giving me a choice?” he fires back.

Cheeky. “Yield,” you tell him.

Something in his eyes softens, and his free hand touches your calf. “I yielded to you long ago.”

Chuckling lowly, you drag the point of the wooden sword up until it tips his chin, savouring his intake of breath like the sweetest cake you’ve ever tasted. “I suppose that’s true,” you say. “A couple of months ago now, ri—“

The doors swing open. Your eyes snap upwards to see Felix Fraldarius standing frozen in the entryway.

“Ah— Felix,” Ashe exclaims, scrambling to get up from underneath you. You hurriedly unseat yourself. “It’s not what it looks like!”

Somehow, you don’t think that helps your case. “We were sparring,” you add, which you don’t think helps either.

“Ridiculous,” Felix scowls. He turns on his heel. “Train or leave.” He stalks back out whence he came, shutting the doors with gusto.

Bright pink and glowing, Ashe pushes to his feet. He offers you a hand, which you take.

“I don’t really feel like training any more,” he admits, keeping your hand clutched firmly in his even once you’re standing.

You agree with a hum, giving his hand a squeeze. “It’s important not to overdo it.”

Ashe squeezes right back before pulling away and heading to the weaponry rack. “You know, a wise professor once told me the same thing.”

“Did they, now?” you ask, following his lead. “What else did they tell you?”

“Well,” he starts, scratching his neck, and you can see the gist of it in his eyes before he opens his mouth. You don’t know how he’ll ask, but the answer is yes. “She made sure I understood how important it is to stretch after training.”

Yes. “Wouldn’t want to be sore in the morning.”

His lips tremble with the effort of holding back a smirk. You wonder if it’d knock him off kilter if you told him how cute it is. “I quite didn’t say that,” he intones. Dropping off his axe in its proper place, he goes on. “What do you say? Come stretch with me? Make sure my form’s alright?”

“Hm. I suppose I could do that,” you say, leaving your own weapon and heading for the door.

Despite his boldness just moments ago, you notice Ashe setting his eyes determinedly forward, not so much as glancing Felix’s way. Felix, on the other hand, stares the two of you down, leaning against the training grounds’ outer wall with his arms crossed over his chest.

“Predictable,” he murmurs under his breath, disappearing through the doors without another word.

Ashe sighs.

“Worn out already?” you tease.

“Not remotely,” he assures you. “I just...” He pauses to exhale. “I don’t want that to happen again.”

Your eyes skip over the stairs to your right. “So, you’re saying we shouldn’t take this to the baths.”

He laughs. “Ah... no. Probably not.”

You have him against the wall the moment you get him alone in your room.

“Byleth,” he gasps. His wrists struggle against where you’ve pinned them, but he presents no serious challenge.

“You didn’t want me to hesitate,” you point out.

He swallows. “I never want you to hesitate.”

You chuckle, but then it hits you that he’s still trying to tug his hands free. You let go like you’ve been shocked, and he reacts just as quickly.

“Wait, wait,” he says, taking your hands in his. “I, uh... perhaps I should explain.”

So you wait for him to do so.

“Even if I... no, I mean... no matter what I do, could you... keep holding me where you want me?”

You take a steadying breath and regard him evenly, searching his face for indecision. He can’t know, you think, the way his question sets a fire inside of you.

“Say Ailell if you change your mind,” you say, slowly, clearly, looking him in the eye.

“Ailell, got it,” he says. A moment later, his eyes widen. “Oh! I didn’t mean—“

“Relax,” you tell him before silencing him with a kiss. “It counts from now on, okay?”

“Understood,” he answers.

“Good boy,” you say with a wink, and though he blushes, he laughs.

Gently, you slide your hands from his palms to his wrists, then curl your fingers around them. Pushing them against the wall, you lean in close, savouring the way he squirms. “Is this what you wanted?” you whisper in his air.

“Yes,” he breathes back.

You never knew how satisfying it could be to unravel a person until you had Ashe begging you to pull his threads undone. You mouth along his jaw, humming as his breath hitches. It’s something you could happily do forever, you think, but seeing as he’s been kind enough not to wear a high-collared top, you’re pretty much obligated to leave marks on his throat as well.

He groans when you latch on. His wrists pull at where you hold them, and he tries to lean into the point of contact.

“That was a pretty sound,” you tease.

“I’ve been told I’m— mm— good at those.”

“Oh, really?” You draw back, ignoring his whimper, and look him in the eyes. “Who told you that? A lady might get jealous, you know.”

You swear his breath flutters. “Well,” he says, “she’s beautiful, and smart, and so kind, and I...”

“Well,” you say after he trails off. “That settles it. I’ve got to take her out. Can’t have competition that good running around, can I?”

Ashe laughs and touches his forehead to yours. “And if I’ve already fallen for her?”

“I doubt you’d be here with me if you had your heart set on someone else.” You free one of his hands so that you can curl a finger under his chin. “Hands to yourself,” you command.

“You’re right about that,” he says quietly, obediently keeping his hand by his side. Satisfied his hands won’t go roaming, you release the other one and make quick work of the lacing at the top of his shirt. His hands twitch as you run yours down his chest and take hold of the hem, but that’s as far as he moves. You flick your eyes to his face to find him biting his lip, eyes wide and dark.

“Arms up,” you instruct, pulling at the garment’s hem. With his help, you divest him of his shirt in two seconds flat. You toss it carelessly to the side. A small part of you worries that he might not be happy if it wrinkles overnight, but the hunger in his eyes says he really. Doesn’t. Care.

“It’s hard to believe you were so worried I wouldn’t like what I saw,” you say, tracing your fingers around the muscles on his arms, his shoulders, his chest.

“Ah, thank you,” he says, his eyes darting away for a fraction of a second. “I was... scared I wouldn’t measure up to you, I suppose.”

“I could look like I belong in the illustrations of those grown-up knight’s tales, for all it’d matter. It wouldn’t change the fact that you’re beautiful.”

He gasps and coughs — and you’re pretty sure it’s not just because you took his nipple into your mouth — and lifts his hands to cover his reddening face. But you catch them.

“Don’t do that,” you say gently as you pull his hands back to his side. “I’m only telling the truth.”

“I know you believe it,” he manages to say, stalwartly refusing to meet your eyes. “That’s why I can’t handle it.”

“Well,” you say, running your hands back up to his biceps with purpose. “If you’re having so much trouble looking at me, perhaps a little rearrangement is in order.”

You spin Ashe around so that his chest is up against the wall, and you pin an arm behind him to keep him there. Nowhere painful (you’re well acquainted with what hurts and what doesn’t), but you’re sure he’s not going anywhere.

“Is this still okay?” you ask him softly. You don’t press up against him, you don’t purr in his ear, or whisper into his skin. You want an answer without incentive.

“Definitely,” he croons. That’s when you push closer. That’s when you start to whisper pretty words into his ear. That’s when your fingers run such delicate lines along his throat that you feel him shiver under you.

Your fingers travel down his side, strumming at his muscles, plucking his nerves. “I want to play you like a lute,” you whisper, unable to keep the laugh from your voice.

Ashe chuckles, gasping as you trace his Adonis line. “I didn’t know you played, Professor.”

“Oh, I don’t,” you say breezily. “I’m willing to put in the hours to gain that expertise, though.”

“Mmh.” He lets his head rest against the wall. “Practice makes perfect.”

You let your hand wander further. It skims over his pants until you brush over the noticeable hardness beneath, and he lets out a breath so quiet you’d’ve missed it if you weren’t listening so intently.

“Tell me, Ashe,” you murmur, pressed up against his back with your head on his shoulder and your hand palming at his cock. “Do you just want me to hold you in place, or is there something else?”

“Please,” he keens. “Please, tell me what to do.”

You hum as if you’re considering it, as if you weren’t already putty in his freckled hands. “You remember the word to make me stop?”

“Yes.”

“Say it.”

“Ailell.”

“Good,” you purr. “Promise me you’ll say it if you’re uncomfortable.”

“I promise,” he says, “but I don’t think I’ll need to.”

You shake your head, withdrawing your hand. “Don’t turn it into a challenge. I have to know that you’ll say it if you need to, not that you’ll try to push yourself.”

“Okay, okay. I promise.” It comes out in a rush. “Your hand, please...”

He glances at you over his shoulder, wide-eyed and pleading, and you feel the catlike grin crawl across your face.

“No, I don’t think so,” you muse.

He makes a sad little noise as you step back, but stands in place, hanging on your instruction. “Professor...?”

“That’s the second time you’ve called me that,” you point out. “Aren’t I Byleth today?”

“I...”

“I’m not complaining.” You run your finger down his spine and he gasps. “Call me what you like. Just be good for me.”

“Goddess,” he whispers.

“This really does it for you, doesn’t it?” you tease, pulling back again.

He exhales before saying “yes.”

“You can turn around, if you like,” you say, folding your arms and standing with a hip cocked as you drag your eyes over him.

“I think you’re wearing too much, don’t you agree?”

“I...! Yes.” His hands shoot to the hem of his pants and you can’t help but giggle at his enthusiasm. He looks up. “Ah, this is what you want me to do, right?”

“It really is,” you answer.

Once he’s bare before you, you close the distance to kiss, then lead him to the middle of the room. “Kneel,” you tell him, peering down your nose as he complies. His eager obedience makes you feel like a queen. “You’re so good for me.” You trace a finger along his jaw and he lets out a shuddering breath. His hands make fists on his thighs, and if you concentrate, you can see them tremble with the need to touch. Touch you, touch himself, anything. His cock stands engorged and red and leaking and it has to ache, you’re sure. But, well. He’ll just have to deal with that, won’t he? You’ll make it worth it. If he makes you feel like a queen, you’ll swear to be a good queen.

Taking care to move at an irritating, leisurely pace, you peel off your shoes, your socks, your pants and your shirt. All Ashe can do is watch, and he does it so intensely. Like there’s nothing else in the world. Like there’s never been anything else in the world. Like you are the universe.

You won’t lie. It’s a heady feeling.

You sit primly on the edge of the bed and beckon him closer with the crook of a finger. Ashe scrambles. He shuffles faster than you’ve ever seen anyone move on their knees, and you don’t hold back your laugh, because he’s smiling too, brows knitted together sheepishly but still looking up at you hopefully.

“Hey there,” you say softly, and you can’t resist reaching out and hooking that stubborn hair behind his ear.

“Hi,” he returns in kind. What little tension there was dissipates from his brow.

You open your legs and once again beckon him forward. Not that he needs the encouragement. “Help me out with these?” you ask as sweetly as can be as you hook a finger under your panties before letting them snap back against your skin.

“You know me,” he says as he slides his palms up your thighs. “I love helping people.”

“In that case, you’ll adore what comes next.” You shift your hips and legs in turn to allow him to drag the garment from your body.

“Anything you ask,” he promises.

Your legs find their way around his back. “I want your mouth on me.”

Delicately, Ashe presses a kiss to the thatch of curly green hair. When he draws back, you’re about to protest, but he holds eye contact with you as he puts two fingers in his mouth and swirls his tongue around him. And. Well. You really can’t complain about that.

“Goddess, you’re beautiful,” you breathe.

His fingers leave his mouth, and the way they shine is tantalising. “You’re the only person who’s ever called me that,” he admits, voice low and quiet. “And probably the only person I’d ever believe.” With that, his fingers are on you, gently parting your lips. His breath dances across your most sensitive parts so hit and tender that you shiver with anticipation, but there’s barely any time to process that before he laps at you with his tongue.

“Ah!” You let out a shuddering breath, surprised by the intensity of your own reaction.

Ashe turns some of his attention to your clit, taking it between his thumb and forefinger and lightly rolling the hood. His tongue prods at your entrance and as it finds its way in, he hums.

“Do that again,” you encourage, coaxing him closer by the hair (he can’t really get much closer, but experience tells you he likes his hair being tugged as much as you like tugging it so you’re not going to let that stop you). “Good, good, you’re so good.” You let a stream of encouragement flow forth as his clever tongue and cleverer fingers work their magic. He happens upon a spot that makes you moan, and you hold him tighter, pressing your heels into his back and fisting your hand in his silver locks. Though he winces, it only spurs him on.

Releasing your grip on his hair, you fall back to your elbows, panting as he works you as best he can. You make a cursory attempt to lift your head to watch him — he makes a pretty picture, that’s for sure — but he chuckles low and hits that spot again and you let your head fall backwards as you keen.

You take a moment to lie useless on the bed.

“Come up here,” you say once you’re done with panting and staring at the ceiling, and you certainly don’t need to tell him twice. Ashe climbs onto the bed and crawls over you, gazing at your flushed face and mussed hair with more fondness than should be legal.

“Sometimes I can’t believe this is really my life,” he says like he’s confessing a deep, dark secret. “It’s so much more than I deserve.”

“No it isn’t,” you say firmly. With no idea how to elaborate, you drag him down and kiss him.

“You can’t see yourself from the outside,” he says when he breaks the kiss. “You don’t know what it’s like... you look at me like I’m something special and say such wonderful things and... I’m sorry, this is getting much too heavy.” He laughs unconvincingly. “I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

“No, it’s okay,” you say, frowning slightly. “You know, you can’t see yourself from the outside, either.”

“Byleth...”

“I look at you like you’re special because you are special—“

“Byleth, please—“

“—and whoever convinced you otherwise is wrong.”

“Ailell!”

You startle, cutting yourself off and letting your hands fall from his body. He straightens, but you think it’s strange that he doesn’t get off you.

“Ah, don’t get me wrong,” he says, looking away as he sits up, straddling your waist. “I still want to keep going, but, ah...”

You say nothing.

“I needed you to stop talking,” he says, flushing. “I know you mean well, but I just... can’t. My heart can’t take it. It’s too much. Please, stop saying things like that.”

You slip a hand over his. “Okay,” you say.

Finally, he looks at you. His smile is weak, but there. “Okay,” he repeats.

“Can I still tell you you’re beautiful?” you ask.

“Y-yes,” Ashe says.

“Are you sure you don’t want to stop for tonight?”

“No!” he answers too quickly. “Ah, I mean, no, I don’t want to stop. Yes, I’m sure. Very much so.”

“If you’re sure,” you say, surveying his face for any sign to the contrary. Finding none, you push yourself up, and he shuffles back in your lap just enough to give you room to sit. “Shall we pick up where we left off?”

He lowers his head so that he can look up at you through his eyelashes. “How can I be of service?”

“Hmm,” you say as your hands snake lower. “Sit there and look pretty? You’re already doing such a good job of it.”

His breath goes shaky, and you feel his stomach flutter under your fingers. “I can try.”

“That’s all I can ask.” When your fingers grasp his cock, he groans and wraps his arms around your shoulders.

“Byleth,” he says. His head drops to your shoulder.

Your free hand goes to his chin and you tilt his face back towards you. “Hey,” you say. “Let me see you.”

Green eyes alight with a conflict between self-consciousness and desire. You’re grateful when desire wins out.

“Alright,” he says, looking nowhere but you.

With a smirk, you bring the hand from his chin to pat his cheek. “Good boy.”

Ashe draws his arms back until just his hands are on your shoulders. The twitching of his fingers betrays nearly as much as his heavy breathing. He holds on for dear life, like he might fall apart if he loosens his grip.

“You can touch me more, if you like,” you tell him. For a moment, it’s like he doesn’t hear you. But then his hands move. You’d expected them to venture lower, to your still-covered breasts, your hips, maybe lower still. What actually happens is he cups your face.

Ashe stares at you, completely unabashed. You wish you knew what was going through his head, but you suppose you should be content with watching the pleasure play across his face. Well, you don’t just suppose. You are content with it. More than content.

You stop.

Ashe blinks. Takes in a few ragged breaths. “Wh... what...?”

You give him another tug and he cries out.

“Do you want to finish now?” you ask.

“Yes, yes, Byleth please, I—“

“Or,” you interrupt, “would you prefer something more?”

Now that gets him to reconsider. Your hand skates down his back, around his behind to poke at his—

“Oh!” he says. “More! Right. Goddess, yes, please.”

When you release his length, he tries to hold back a whine. He doesn’t do a great job of it. With your now free hand, you pat his thigh. “Let me up so I can get the oil.”

He rolls off your lap, kneeling on the bed and watching your every step hungrily.

“How do you want me?”

You stop. “Pardon?”

Ashe coughs, averting his eyes for a moment. “How do you, ah, want me to wait?”

Your lips feel so dry that your tongue darts out to wet them without you really meaning to. “The word is still Ailell, okay?”

He nods, licking his own lips.

Picking up the strap-on and holding it where he can see it, you tilt your chin up. “Feet on the floor. Bend over the bed. I’ll take care of you.”

Ashe exhales like you’ve knocked the wind from him. “Whatever you say,” he whispers with what sounds like reverence. You watch, transfixed, as he gets into position, and you almost forget to walk back over there. He props his upper half up on his forearms and turns his head to see you. His almost shy smile contrasted with his ass in the hair is just about enough to short out your brain.

“Wow.” You drag a hand along the freckled plane of his back.

“Is that...” He swallows. “Is that really where you want to touch?”

“There are lots of places I want to touch,” you reply. You set the oil on the bed and don the harness where he can watch your every little move. It certainly has an effect on him; his nostrils flare and he licks his lips again.

“You can touch anywhere,” he says, so hushed that you don’t even know if the words were meant for you.

Harness on, you scoop up the oil and sit down next to Ashe, working it over your fingers as he watches. You pretend to be surprised to catch him staring. “Oh, did you want something?”

“Byleth...”

“Well, if you insist,” you smile. Standing behind him, you massage the outside of his entrance with your thumb. It’s enough to make him whimper. Which is nothing compared to the keening sound you draw from him when you breach him with a finger.

You keep a steadying hand on his back, stroking along his quivering muscles. “You’re doing so well, Ashe.”

He cranes his neck to look at you through bleary eyes. “Byleth, please...”

“Relax,” you tell him. “And don’t try to rush me. I’ll make it worth your while, I promise.”

You’re pleased to see that he does, in fact, relax, looking away. “Okay,” he says shakily. “I trust you.”

“Good boy,” you say, adding another finger and revelling in the few nonsense syllables that leave his mouth in response when you crook them.

It’s only once you’re three fingers deep that you touch Ashe’s cock. He all but yells.

“Told you,” you say with a wink he can’t see.

“How-are-you-this-perfect,” he gasps out, arching his back and pushing against you.

“Hmm, such high praise.”

When your fingers slide from him with an unmistakable wet sound, he whimpers. He’s even less pleased when you stop stroking him to reach for the oil.

“It’s only for a moment, beautiful,” you assure him, spreading the lubricant thoroughly over your glass length.

He sighs. “Sorry, sorry... little worked up...” Your hands find purchase on his cheeks and his breath hitches as you align the glass with his entrance.

“Don’t apologise,” you tell him as you slide one hand back to his cock, leaving the other to grip his ass. “But don’t hold back, either.”

When you push past the ring of muscle, he cries out. You move slowly, at first, giving him every chance to get used to the stretch, the fullness. Soon enough, though, he’s rocking against you, meeting your thrusts with tremors and grunts.

“Ashe,” you say, pushing lightly on the space between his shoulder blades. “Stop holding yourself up. Bend further.”

“Wha...” he begins, but cuts himself off with an ‘ah!’.

You apply a little more pressure. “Ashe.”

He nods, bending his elbows. “Right, oka— oh.” He lowers himself on shaking arms until he’s able to fold them against the mattress.

“Better, right?” you ask, pumping his dick harder.

“Don’t stop,” he begs. “Please, don’t stop.”

You chuckle, dragging the hand you’d pushed him with back to his behind. “I’ll take that as a yes,” you say.

He’s vocalising with your every thrust. It’s wonderful — you were right when you told him he makes pretty sounds. It’s clear he’s getting close. This time, finally, you’ll pull him over the edge.

“You’re being so good, Ashe,” you murmur, bending over him as close as you can. “So good, so good for me, just a little further...”

He tenses. Calls your name. You stroke him through it, watching his knuckles go white from gripping the blanket as he spills over—

Oh. Over the blanket. Well. That’s tomorrow’s problem.

Sliding the glass from him (and earning a discontented grumble), you guide Ashe to flop on his side rather than in the wet patch. He doesn’t seem to care now, but you have a feeling he’ll be grateful once his brain works again.

Though you’d like to free yourself from the harness, you figure that can wait a minute or two so you can sit beside him as he catches his breath. Softly, you stroke his hair.

“How was that?” you ask.

Ashe mumbles something incoherent, blindly reaching for your hand. Once he finds it, he draws it to his face and kisses your wrist before releasing it once again.

“Loved it,” he drawls.

“That’s what I like to hear,” you say, feeling yourself smile. Standing, you finally free yourself of the harness, locate a cloth and wipe it down, and begin putting everything away. By the time you turn your attention back to Ashe on the bed, he seems more alert.

“Hello,” he says when he catches your eye. His face is so soft that you just might melt.

“Hey, handsome,” you say, patting him in the shoulder as he ducks his head. “Going to need you to move off the blanket.”

“I’m comfortable,” he mock-pouts.

You raise an eyebrow and point to the gooey puddle.

“Ah!” He sits upright. “Oh, I’m sorry. Let me handle that tomorrow.”

Raising a hand, you cut him off. “It’s fine. I’ll handle it.”

Ashe answers with a noncommittal hum as he shifts to let you take the blanket and throw it atop your laundry hamper, along with the cloth.

It’s fortunate that the night isn’t cold, you think as you slide under the sheets with Ashe. It’s even more fortunate that Ashe is so nice and warm to hold onto. The warmth if his body beside your legs is welcome as you sit and reach behind yourself to deal with your bra. Once unhooked, you fling it... somewhere. You suppose you’ll find out in the morning.

You shuffle down next to him and his arm falls around you like it was always meant to be there. One last thing — you glance over your shoulder at the still-burning candles and flick your wrist. They gutter with a quiet fwoomph. You’ll have to thank Lysithea for taking the time to explain that one to you.

“Thank you for always letting me stay, you know, after,” Ashe mumbles against your skin.

“You make a good pillow,” you say, poking him. “Also, you’re warm.”

He laughs quietly. “Well, glad I could help.” You feel his breath, soft against your collarbone, before he presses a kiss there. His hand skirts up your ribcage, then his knuckles graze the side of your breast. “Is this alright?” he asks.

“It feels nice,” you answer with an appreciative sigh. “Feel free to do that as much as you like.”

“You know, I just might.”

You fall asleep to Ashe’s kisses.

Morning comes. You wake not to Ashe, but a note on your pillow.

> _I promised Mercedes I’d meet her, Ingrid and Felix for breakfast. You looked so peaceful, I didn’t want to wake you. I_

Then there’s something scribbled out so thoroughly you can’t make heads or tails of it. You breathe a laugh and read on.

> _Sorry! I’m still pretty sleepy. But I don’t want to waste any more of your parchment. See you today?_

Underneath that, there’s a little flower. Ashe certainly isn’t an artist, but the doodle brightens your day nonetheless. Your eyes wander to your laundry hamper, which you notice is short one blanket. Shaking your head, you let yourself smile.

On mornings when you’re not particularly ravenous, you sometimes take a walk before stopping by the dining hall for breakfast. A little exercise goes a long way in preparing for the day ahead, and you’ve noticed people are less likely to demand your attention if they themselves haven’t been fed. Days like these are days when you eventually enter a dining hall already full of conversation and familiar faces.

Lysithea’s on her way out as you head in, and she offers you a nod and smile as you pass each other by. You can see most of the other Deer spotted around the hall. Ignatz, Lorenz and Hilda sit together, chatting animatedly. By the gleam in Ignatz’s eyes, they must be talking about the Goddess or art, and by the fact that Hilda doesn’t look bored out of her mind, you don’t think it’s the Goddess. Leonie and Raphael sit with Flayn, and Marianne’s on her own next to an empty seat. You wonder if Lysithea had been there with her.

As per Ashe’s note, the former Blue Lions sit together at the end of the far table closest to the food. From what you can see, Felix is actually talking to people now, which has to be an improvement. After you’ve collected your food, you pass behind Felix and Ingrid on the way to sit with Marianne, but what you overhear from Felix makes you pause.

“...like a circus performer, still jumping through Dimitri’s flaming hoops, as if his ringmaster wasn’t already dead.”

“Don’t talk about them like that,” Ashe says. “Dedue’s a good man. One of the best, in fact. And Prince Dimitri... I just think saying that kind of thing is wrong.”

Felix regards him for a moment, coolly, silently. “Bold words from a former teacher’s professional bedwarmer.”

You freeze.

“Felix!” Ingrid scolds. He ignores her.

Ashe breathes. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what you mean,” he says evenly.

“Don’t think that you’re in any position to tell me what I can or cannot say,” Felix responds. “You’re a whore, and that’s the only reason you’re alive.”

“Felix, for the love of... I’m so sorry, Ashe. He didn’t mean it.”

“Yes, I did. You don’t speak for me.”

As Felix and Ingrid bicker (and Mercedes looks disappointed beyond belief) you move to put a hand on Felix’s shoulder with the intention of putting a stop to whatever he thinks he’s doing. But you make eye contact with Ashe. Who shakes his head. You can feel yourself frowning, and in response, he grimaces.

‘It’s okay,’ he mouths. It’s not, you think. It’s really not. But... if Ashe doesn’t want you interfering, then it isn’t your place to. Lips drawn into a thin line, you nod, then continue on your way to take a seat next to a supremely uncomfortable Marianne.

“Good morning, Professor,” she says politely. You return the greeting, and the two of you wordlessly agree to try to eat together in companionable silence.

It doesn’t last long.

You can hear the argument bubbling along, quietly enough not to make out the words, loudly enough that the tone makes your stomach clench. Which is unpleasant and weird and not at all what you’re used to.

Here’s the thing: the rest of the hall’s occupants are wising up to the tenor of the Lions’ conversation, and the surrounding chatter quickly peters away to nearly nothing. So, when Ashe says “if you really think Byleth would make someone buy their life with their body, you don’t know the first thing about her,” you hear it loud and clear. You’re not one to blush, but your cheeks burn so hot that you’d swear you can see them glowing.

“Felix, this is wildly inappropriate,” grumbles Ingrid.

“Right,” says Mercedes. “It’s none of your concern whose bed Ashe shares, and it isn’t your place to judge, either.”

“That wasn’t what I...” Ingrid starts, but she cuts herself off with a sigh.

“I... have to go,” Marianne says quietly, standing from her seat. “Farewell, Professor.” She doesn’t waste time in making herself scarce. You chance a look around the hall and find she’s not the only one. Ignatz has vanished, too. Lorenz looks suitably scandalised, and Hilda’s loving every moment. Leonie makes up a fishing-related excuse to drag Flayn away, too stiff and too loud to be natural. Raphael follows after them, though you think that has everything to do with the fish and nothing to do with uncomfortable words.

“If he thinks he has the right to moralise, then what he is is my concern,” says Felix.

“You have the wrong idea, Felix,” says Ashe, stiffly and tempered and flushing. You cast your eyes towards him and just briefly he looks back at you before exhaling and staring resolutely at Felix.

“Oh?” Felix returns. “What you’re saying is that you didn’t start sleeping with one of the most powerful people in this army almost immediately after switching sides, then?”

“It’s none of your business who he sleeps with, Felix,” says Mercedes, which Felix pays about as much heed as he did before. Which is to say: none at all.

Ashe breathes in and out before replying, and in his delay you sneak a glance at Ingrid, who sits slumped forward with her head in her hands.

“I can’t deny that,” Ashe says carefully, “but it’s not at all like you’re implying, really. I told you, Byleth isn’t like that.”

Felix scoffs. “Not like that, hm? So it’s you, then.”

“Me?”

“Don’t play coy. If the Professor— sorry, if Byleth ‘isn’t like that’, then your arrangement must have been your plan.”

“Ugh.” Ingrid looks like she wants to slam her head against the table.

“Fitting, isn’t it?” Felix goes on. “You’ve gone your whole life riding on the coattails of others, convincing people in power to take pity on you and taking refuge in whoever seems safest at the time, regardless of what you believe.”

Your blood runs cold. It takes all of your willpower not to march right over there, but somehow, you manage. Ashe doesn’t want your help. That’s his choice to make.

Ashe, for his part, listens in silence, his face a mask of marble. He takes in everything that Felix dishes out without reaction.

And still, Felix goes on.

“Have you ever done anything for yourself? By your own merits, without relying on the help of someone who’d put in the work before you? I’ll bet it got easier for you, once you grew up and had something to offer.”

“That’s enough, Felix,” Mercedes tries again, in vain.

“Did you fuck Count Rowe too, Ashe?”

The hall is silent.

“There a reason you’re not stopping this?” Claude’s voice is tense as he murmurs in your ear. You hadn’t even noticed him sliding into Marianne’s abandoned seat. Ordinarily, that might worry you. Even here in the monastery, you don’t like to let your guard slip quite that far.

“He doesn’t want me to step in,” you answer just as quietly.

There’s something to Claude’s hum of response. Something that you might mull over later, something you might analyse, because you know he’s thinking and you don’t know what he’s thinking about, but. But. You’ve got other things on your mind right now.

“Is that all, Felix?” Ashe asks. The shake in his voice makes your gut clench.

“Say your piece,” Felix replies, which you can’t help but notice isn’t technically an answer.

Ashe takes in a breath, pauses for a moment, then releases it, setting his should and jaw as he looks Felix in the eye again. “You don’t think I’ve accomplished anything by myself, huh?” he says, but he must not be looking for an answer, because after a shaky breath, he continues. “Tell me, Felix: what were you doing when you were nine years old?”

Felix frowns like he doesn’t get the point of the question. “Training, like I have all my life.”

Ashe’s lips draw together. “Must be nice.” Felix opens his mouth to respond, but Ashe doesn’t allow it. “I don’t know why you’re doing this, but I’ll tell you the truth anyway. I only ever met Count Rowe a handful of times. Whether or not you believe it is up to you, but I was a soldier in his forces, nothing more.”

Again, Felix makes to reply, and again, Ashe speaks first.

“But,” he says, and others might not catch the way his eyes narrow, but you sure do, “you know what? If offering myself to Count Rowe had been the only way to keep my brother and sister safe, I would have done it.”

Felix sniffs. “At least you’re honest enough to admit it.”

Exhaling through his nose, Ashe shakes his head. “I don’t see why you think I should be ashamed. Have you ever had to fight tooth and nail to protect anyone in your life?”

Everything happens at once.

“Oookay, time to go,” Claude tells you under his breath, grabbing your bicep and hauling you to your feet. He all but frog-marches you the first few steps towards the conflict.

Felix springs to his feet, fists on the table. Mercedes, of all people, is the first to follow suit, scolding him calmly but firmly even as he snipes at Ashe. Ashe says something in response that you don’t quite catch, but what you do hear is Ingrid telling him he’s being unfair, and then the both of them are standing, too.

Standing next to Felix, Claude clears his throat. You can’t say you’re surprised when the sound goes unacknowledged. Unacknowledged by Felix, at least. Mercedes has stopped talking, looking between you and Claude with curiosity.

Ashe doesn’t seem to want to meet your eye.

“Pardon me, ladies and gentlemen,” Claude says, startling Ingrid. Felix goes quiet, closing his eyes.

“Clau— uh, Duke Riegan!” Ingrid says, clasping a hand over her heart and bowing awkwardly. “My apologies. I didn’t see you there.”

“I noticed that,” he replies easily. “Hey, listen. I hate to pull rank, but Teach and I need to speak with our four favourite Faerghans in private. Come with me?”

Hilda appears between you and Claude with an ‘ooh!’ as if summoned by the abstract concept of gossip itself. Claude glances at her and shrugs, and she grins ear-to-ear in response.

“Of course,” Ingrid answers as if it’s automatic, stepping from her seat and looking to the others to follow. Mercedes smiles her assent. Ashe nods, still avoiding eye contact.

Felix sniffs. “Fine,” he says.

“Thanks for your cooperation,” Claude says with a brilliant smile and faraway eyes. “I know just the place, follow me.”

‘Just the place’ turns out to be the nearest disused, lockable classroom.

“I’m so sorry about all this,” Ingrid says the moment Claude clicks the lock. “I tried to get them to calm down, but—“

“You’re not responsible for me,” Felix cuts her off.

“Really, Ingrid, it wasn’t your fault. You don’t have to worry,” Ashe assured her. “You didn’t start anything.”

“No, that would be you,” Felix says, and Mercedes sighs.

“Me? I—“

“Stop,” says Claude, putting up a hand. Ashe shuts his mouth so fast his teeth clack. Claude smiles mirthlessly at him. “Much obliged.”

Ashe just nods.

Letting out a breath that isn’t quite a sigh, Claude gestures around the empty room. “Take a seat. Make yourselves comfortable. You know how it goes.” He takes up residence atop a desk, planting his feet on a chair and resting his forearms against his knees, hands clasped between them.

You and most of the others sit like normal people. Hilda reclines across a desk like it’s a chaise lounge.

“So,” Hilda says gleefully, drawing the word out. “That was stupid.”

“Well said, Hilda,” says Claude. “I couldn’t agree more. Anyone want to tell me why I have to deal with this?” His eyes sweep the room, and it hits you that he looks at you just as much as anyone else. Is he that disappointed that you didn’t intervene? It feels a little like you swallowed a rock.

“You tell me,” Felix counters. “No one asked you to.”

“Marianne would say otherwise,” Claude returns easily. “But thanks for volunteering.”

Felix frowns at him, saying nothing.

“I missed the start of your grand performance out there,” Claude clarifies. “Care to fill me in?”

“I’m dying to know,” Hilda chimes in.

Felix’s eyes land on her. “Why are you here?”

She shrugs. “Bored.”

“Can someone answer Claude’s question?” you ask.

“I-I would if I could,” Ashe answers, rubbing the back of his neck. Still looking away from you. “I still don’t really know what Felix was so upset about.”

“At her beck and call,” Felix grumbles under his breath, rolling his eyes. “No wonder you’re so quick to defend the boar and his dog. You’re just like them. Tell me, what kind of animal is a teacher’s pet?”

What happens next is everyone yells at Felix. Everyone save Hilda, more accurately, who you notice rolls her eyes.

“Enough,” says Claude, who sounds just firm enough that everyone falls silent at his one word. He looks at Felix, who stares right back.

“Felix,” Claude says, all seriousness. “You’re still here because you want to help us defeat the Empire.” It’s not a question.

“Right,” says Felix.

“Then I’d better not hear you refer to another human being as an animal, or I’ll send you back to Fraldarius so fast it’ll make your head spin.”

Felix balks. “You’re neither my king nor commander,” he snaps back.

“True,” Claude returns calmly. “But currently, Garreg Mach Monastery is being used as a base of operations by the Leicester Alliance. As the leader of the Leicester Alliance, I have jurisdiction over almost everyone here. That includes foreign diplomats who can’t keep their grief in check well enough to stop themselves from badmouthing my advisors and generals in front of enough people to spread it through the entire army before noon.”

Ashe stares a hole in the ground. You’re the only one who sees.

It’s Ingrid who speaks up first. “If you eject Felix, I’ll withdraw my support, too.”

The look Claude gives her betrays nothing of what he’s thinking. “A shame, that.”

“You wouldn’t do it,” says Felix. “We’re valuable to you. Our houses, our crests, they’re more important to the war effort than treating me like an unruly child in need of discipline.”

Claude raises one eyebrow, which says ‘then stop acting like one’ more clearly than saying the words aloud would. It’s impressive, really.

Hilda, on the other hand, blows a raspberry. “You guys are way inconsistent, you know that?”

Felix appears sufficiently affronted. “Excuse me?”

“All through our academy days, everyone was all ‘oooh, Claude’s so mysterious’ this, ‘unknowable schemer’ that.” She waggles her fingers in the air in much the same way you’ve seen Mercedes do while telling ghost stories. “But you show up five years later and suddenly you’re like ‘you won’t do what you say you’ll do, I know better, I understand everything, a-bloo-bloo-bloo’. Not a good look!”

Felix has nothing to say to that. You think that’s probably for the best.

“I think you should just do as he asks,” Mercedes says, touching a hand to Felix’s shoulder (which is brave, you think). “You’re a smart young man, I’m sure you can still think of lots of colourful things to say when you’re angry!”

Claude waits patiently, watching Felix, analysing the way the swordsman’s face betrays his thoughts in a stark contrast to his own. What Claude doesn’t do as he sits quietly is leave any room for challenge. There’s no passivity in his silence. No easy smiles, fake or otherwise. There’s a difference, you think, between the personas of Claude and Duke Riegan, but it’s one you so rarely get to see.

“Fine,” says Felix, casting his eyes to the ceiling. “It doesn’t matter to me.”

Ingrid’s shoulders lose their tension as she mutters an ‘oh, thank goodness,’ under her breath.

“Glad to hear it,” says Claude, leaning back in his chair just a little. You get to watch most of Duke Riegan’s severity fall away like a discarded cloak. People have showered you with all sorts of praise, said impossibly good things about your skill in battle and strategy alike, but man, you’ll never be able to do that.

“Wonderful,” Felix says flatly. “I presume we can go now.”

Claude smiles. “Nah,” he says, and you swear you can see Felix’s blood pressure rise. “Still in the dark as to how this all got started. And, like Hilda said, I’m dying to know.”

Bristling, Felix folds his arms. “You can’t keep me here for the sake of gossip.”

“Sure would be nice to know what reduced alleged adults I’m supposed to trust my people to in life-or-death situations to a public shouting match, though,” Claude returns. “This going to be a problem moving forward?”

The question is clearly directed equally at Ashe and Felix. So, naturally, it’s Ingrid who answers.

“I assure you, it won’t be,” she says, respectfully ducking her head.

Felix looks at her like he’s about to correct her. Then he changes course. He sighs through his nose. “It won’t happen again,” he says flatly.

Claude nods, then turns expectantly to Ashe.

“Oh! Of course. It won’t be a problem. I promise.”

“There,” says Mercedes with a smile. “That wasn’t so hard!”

“A fair sight easier than dealing with the roundtable, believe me,” Claude agrees. “See that you all keep your word, alright? We’ve got enough on our collective plate as it is.”

“So we’re dismissed?” Felix asks.

Claude barely gets to the ‘s’ in ‘yes’ before Felix unclicks the door and shoots out.

Ingrid stands, bowing almost immediately. “Again, I’m so, so sorry about all of this.” Claude nods at her. As she turns to leave, you catch the determined frustration in her eyes. You might worry for Felix’s wellbeing if you weren’t so displeased with him. As it stands, though? Let him deal with whatever Ingrid has in store, you think.

“Are you free this afternoon, Ashe?” Mercedes asks, straightening out her skirt as she moves from her seat.

“What?” he asks, snapping out of whatever reverie he’d been stuck in. “Oh! Yes, I am.”

“Oh, good!” Mercedes claps her hands together smiles in the warm way that only Mercedes can. “Stop by my room for tea. We’ve so much to talk about. Ooh, I can bake something nice and sweet beforehand. How does that sound?”

Ashe tries to return the smile, but you think it’s clear to everyone in the room that he’s not feeling great. “That sounds lovely, Mercedes. I’ll be there.”

You notice Hilda’s already vanished as Mercedes leaves. You’re not sure when she did that. The second things got boring, you assume.

Ashe looks like he wants to say something, but Claude beats him to the punch.

“Mind if I get Teach alone for a minute here, Ashe?” Claude asks with a wink. “Gods know you’ve had a lot more minutes than me lately.”

Ashe startles and you hold back on the urge to elbow Claude. “O-of course,” he says with a quick nod, making for the door. “I’ll, ah, leave you to it. Sorry again for all the trouble.”

“Nah, don’t stress too much,” Claude tells him. “Anyway, I promise I’ll have her home by curfew.”

The sound Ashe makes might be a cough, and it might be a laugh. Either way, he bows stiffly and darts out the door, closing it behind him.

“Don’t tease him,” you scold, folding your arms over your chest.

Claude clicks his tongue. “Aw, Teach! You’re so protective. It’s adorable. Who’d have thought the man you reunited with surrounded by the lava and brimstone if Ailell would be the one to melt that supposedly icy heart of yours? Almost poetic, don’t you think?”

“Nothing’s melting,” you say warily, and you really don’t like where you think he’s going with this.

“True, but that’s mostly because you don’t have a heart of ice in the first place. The rumour mill always does have trouble with the details.”

“Okay,” you say in lieu of any real reply. Then, because you’d really rather talk about anything else, you say “you’re not happy with how I handled that.”

He grimaces, and you can tell you got to the crux of it. “Technically, I’m not happy that you didn’t handle it, but far be it from me to get bogged down by details.”

It doesn’t feel any better than the moment you realised it.

“I’m sorry,” you say. You mean it.

Claude waves it off. “Don’t worry yourself over it. None of us are kids any more — well, Flayn aside, which is a puzzle I still haven’t pieced together — and you shouldn’t have to play babysitter. But still, if anyone else wants to stage a show like that, all I’m saying is that next time, you should maybe knock their heads together. In a very respectful, adult-to-adult kind of way.”

“I can manage that.”

“Of course you can,” he grins. “You’ve also managed to divert me from the actual, very important reason I wanted to speak with you. Congrats, I guess.”

You hate to ask when you think you know the answer, but for whatever reason you do it anyway. “What reason is that?”

“Oh, you know,” he waves a hand around. “Lava and brimstone, melting hearts. Ringing any bells?”

“Claude,” you warn.

“You’re right, you’re right,” he says. “It’s far too early to be listening for the sound of bells, right?”

“Claude,” you say again. “Just say what you mean.”

“I think you know what I mean, Teach.”

You just stare.

“Fine, fine. You and Ashe. I’m happy for you.”

The sigh you heave might just be the biggest Fódlan’s ever seen. “Not you too.”

“Me ‘too’, is it?” Claude asks. You’re not looking at him — that would be tricky with your face so firmly in your palms — but you know his voice well enough to know he’s smirking. “Who else has figured you out, hm?”

A groan feels better than an answer, so that’s what you give him.

“You’re not thinking of Lorenz, right? Because I promise you, he bought the whole ‘we’re bumping uglies, not bumping hearts’ line you fed him. Believe me. Oh, I’ve also been informed that my concern with your ‘nightly dalliances’ is ‘utterly improper’. Consider me suitably chastened.”

“It wasn’t a line,” you grumble, and you’re sure your words are muffled to near incoherence by your hands. That’s Claude’s problem to deal with, you decide. Not yours.

“Oh, I know, I know,” he says, and you know he doesn’t. “I get what you’re doing. Officially, it doesn’t mean anything. Can’t let the people think you’re getting distracted.”

“It doesn’t...” you start, hands falling from your face. You think better of continuing on with ‘mean anything’, because it’s made you both happy, hasn’t it? So you try something else. “We’re not ‘bumping hearts’. What I told Lorenz was true.”

Claude’s quiet as he shuffles closer to you. There’s a moment where he says nothing, does nothing. Then he puts a hand on your shoulder. “You know you can talk to me about anything, right, Teach?”

You already regret taking your palms from your face. “Now you sound like Seteth.”

He laughs at that, clapping his hand to your shoulder once more before letting it fall. “Seteth’s seen through you too, hey?Cluey old dastard, that one is. Good on him.”

“No one’s seen...” you begin before giving up and sighing. “I’m not lying to you, Claude.”

He studies your face for a beat, quiet and contemplative. “No, I don’t suppose you are.”

“Oh, thank goodness,” you breathe, and he raises a questioning eyebrow at you. “I’m just glad I didn’t have to argue the point.”

“Hey, give me a little more credit than that, Teach,” he says with a crooked grin. “I know when someone believes what they’re saying.”

“Still... I’m glad.”

“In that case, you’re welcome. So, I hate to pry—“

“You don’t.”

“Not in the slightest. So, you aren’t head-over-heels. Enchanted by his presence. Struck dumb when you see his pretty face. Scribbling little hearts and ‘Ashe Eisner’s into the margins of your notes. We’ve established this.”

“You have a point, I assume,” you say drily.

“I do! Teach, you know me so well.”

“What I know is I’d rather talk about anything else.”

“Alright, alright. Message received. I’ll speed it up. So, allegedly, your heart doesn’t skip a beat when he laughs.”

“My heart doesn’t beat,” you point out.

Claude, unflappable, remains unflapped. “You don’t feel butterflies in your stomach, then. You believe this, I believe you believe this, and so on and so forth. I have to ask, though: is Ashe on the same page?”

“Of course he is,” you fire back automatically. “You think I’d mislead him?”

“Easy there, Teach,” Claude says calmly, hands up. “No, I don’t think that. Not for a moment. What I do think — and this may shock you — is that people aren’t your forté. Things aren’t always as they seem.”

“We’ve talked about it,” you say, focussing on a random patch of floor. The floor won’t look back or dissect your words. “When it first started. We made sure we understood each other.”

“Uh-huh,” says Claude. “And as we know, people are stagnant, static creatures, and nothing ever changes.”

“Claude...”

“You’re sure you’re not even a teensy bit madly in love with him?”

“Claude!”

“Humour me, okay?”

Rolling your eyes, you do. “I’m sure I’m not in love,” you say, the words setting off a chain reaction of quivers inside of you that you immediately decide you dislike. “We’re just good friends. Really.”

“Good friends, is it?” he asks, and the mischief doesn’t sneak back into his expression so much as take a flying leap. “We’re good friends too, aren’t we? And yet I’ve not once picked the locks to your chambers. Oh, woe betide my ancestors, to have failed so severely in my good-friend-ly duties! Curse my negligence! Surely, I bring shame upon yadda yadda yadda.”

“You’ve let me down, Claude,” you say, and you can’t help but smirk just a little.

“Ah, how could it have come to this?” he asks, throwing his hands open dramatically. He winks when you snort, then folds his hands in his lap once more. “Really, though. You’re sure you’re sure?”

You punch him lightly on the forearm.

“Alas, such mistreatment,” he says, shoving you back.

The monastery bells chime ten, cutting off any retort you might’ve offered.

“I should probably be going,” you say, mentally running through the day ahead.

“Me too,” Claude admits. He stands, stretches, then with a shrug, sits again. “You go on ahead, on second thought. I wouldn’t mind a few more minutes to myself to pretend I don’t exist for a bit. Life’s busy for the extant.”

You nod. “Enjoy the peace and quiet while you can.”

“By the way,” he says as you reach the door. “I asked you why you didn’t step in earlier. You said, and I quote, ‘he doesn’t want me to’.”

“Yes...?”

Claude smirks. “There was more than one person kicking up a fuss in the dining hall, Teach. Your mind zeroed in on Ashe, not my words.”

“I...” you begin, but you quickly realise you don’t know where you’re going with that. “Huh.”

He laughs, crossing his arms behind his neck. “Not going to lie, it’s weird when it’s this easy to see what’s happening in that head of yours. You’ve been an open book lately, Teach. Might want to try giving yourself a read.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ashe can, will, and must get pegged. @moonberrytxt on twitter, i’m exhausted


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello! i’m alive!  
i haven’t been able to edit this chapter as thoroughly as i’d like as my eyes keep glossing over when i try to read anything longer than a couple of paragraphs, so i do apologise in advance for any typos you might find!
> 
> i know for sure now that this should finish up at nine chapters :) hopefully i’ll get the next one out quicker than the two months this took, but i know by now not to make promises,,
> 
> anyway!! i hope you like this, and thank you so much for coming along for the ride so far!

Prevailing opinion notwithstanding, you do not fuck in the tent.

The road to Fort Merceus is one your host marches for days. It’s long and boring, and the nights can be cold with just tent canvas and blankets to shield you. It’s not exactly roughing it, not to you (Hilda sees it differently), but you’ve discovered having someone lovely and warm beside you makes the nights pass easier.

Thus, for the last three nights, Ashe has slept in your tent. Whoever’s supposed to be sharing with him — Ignatz, you think? — ought to be grateful for the extra space. Ignatz (you think) gets room and privacy, you get Ashe, and you guess Ashe gets you. Win-win-win.

You’ve been thinking, recently. Quite a bit more than you’re used to. It’s Claude’s fault, of course.

‘You’re an open book. Try giving yourself a read.’ Here’s the snag, though: you don’t know what that means. Your brain isn’t a textbook you can flip open to the relevant page to glean the answers Claude seeks. Or wants you to seek. You think that’s how it is. Either way, it’s passing tricky to read when you don’t even know where the words are.

Of course, you know what Claude was hinting at. There’s a man lying inches from you in your cot, and Claude thinks you’re in love with him. Your eyes settle on the shape of his head in the dark as you contemplate why that might be.

Well, there’s the obvious. You’re sleeping together. Everyone knows now. Felix saw to that. But if even Lorenz Hellman Gloucester himself can understand that that doesn’t necessarily make you and Ashe partners, then so can Claude. So it can’t be just that.

You’re... best friends? You think? That’s what you told Ashe, and you meant it, but you’re still not sure that covers it. You’ve not had the time to get used to the words people use to describe how they get on with one another. Besides, Claude made fun of you when you pointed that out. So that’s probably not it.

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” Ashe starts, and ah, that explains why his arms aren’t draped over you like a warm blanket. He’s less tactile when he’s overthinking.

“Mm?”

“About what happened in the dining hall...” he says. You don’t need to ask when.

You’re going to have to prompt him, you realise. Let him know it’s okay. “What about it?”

“What I said to Felix, about letting Count Rowe, ah... sorry, this is difficult to put into words.”

“Take your time.” Your hand finds his shoulder, where your thumb traces soft little circles. You don’t miss the way his breath hitches.

“Thank you,” he says softly, and he’s silent for a while. You listen to his breathing, and to the barely audible sound of skin-on-skin that comes from your thumb’s movements. “I meant what I told him,” he begins, and you swear, you can hear his frown. “That if... if letting someone use me was the only way to keep my brother and sister safe, sheltered and fed, I’d do it.”

There’s a pause, which you fill with “I believe you.”

Ashe takes in a breath that you know is meant to be steadying, but you’re not quite sure it works. “Do you think any less of me for that?”

You blink, and you’re quiet, because the answer seems so obvious that the words get lost on the way. “Of course not,” you tell him when they find their way to your lips. “Why would I?”

He closes his eyes and lets out a sigh. Under your hand, his shoulder slackens. “I needed to hear you say that.”

You don’t say anything. Truthfully, you don’t know what you could say.

“Thank you,” he says (again). Resting his head on your shoulder, he falls asleep in no time at all. Whatever the hell the two of you are, it’s... it’s nice.

Taking Fort Merceus, in many ways, is an easier battle than Gronder Field. For one, you and Claude had practically all the information you needed in advance. His plan went off without a hitch.

On top of that, you don’t hear Bernadetta screaming.

By the time word reaches you that Lysithea has found Linhardt von Hevring, he’s already given in. Already offered himself up as a prisoner of war. Already half begged to be carted off peacefully to your camp where he can sit quietly and do anything but fight.

Caspar offers no such easy exit. But, luckily enough, after Lysithea wipes the floor with the Death Knight, Caspar is called off. No one has to kill any former friends, and whatever it means for the future of the war, you can’t say you’re displeased to watch Caspar von Bergliez retreating alive.

The javelin of light levels Fort Merceus.

The victory tastes like soot.

Back at camp, Hilda tries to offer Linhardt something a little stronger than spiced wine. Though he ultimately turns it down, for a moment, he really does consider it. He does not say no to the handful of sweets from Lysithea. You wonder where she found those on the trail. Then you remember she’s Lysithea, ever resourceful and always prepared, and the mystery solves itself.

There’s not a soul in the world who could be surprised when Ashe finds his way to your tent.

“We’re doing the right thing,” he says as you stand to greet him, and you suspect it’s more to himself than to you.

“We are,” you echo.

Ashe sighs, then looks you in the eye, plaintive and lost. He comes straight to you, hands twitching as if unsure before he exhales and wraps his arms around your waist. “There’s an end to this, isn’t there? It feels like it’s been going on forever.”

You try to remember a time before fighting. You don’t succeed. “There’s always another battle.” It’s not the answer he’s searching for, of that you’re sure, but you’re not about to lie.

“I know that,” he says, undeterred. “There’ll always be someone to protect, and I want to be there to protect them. But this... this might not make any sense, but do you ever feel like your days are just... bleeding into one another? Kind of like you’re stuck in a dream, but it’s not a good one, and you can’t tell most of what goes on from a bowl of gruel?”

The recognition hits like a clenching of the hollow in your chest. “Every day before I came to Garreg Mach,” you say.

Ashe’s mouth draws into a thin line, but after a moment, you see the seeds of hope sprouting in his eyes. “It ended for you?” he asks, hushed, as if he might frighten the answer he hopes for away like a nervous bird. “When things got better?”

You nod.

The corners of his mouth tug upwards, and a quiet laugh bubble out of him. “I’m glad,” he says.

He leans in, stopping just shy of kissing you. You stay still. His breath dances hot across your lips, and his eyes are searching yours. For permission, maybe? You’re not sure. He glances down to your lips, then meets your eyes again. When you slide a hand over his, he exhales and closes the distance.

There’s need in his every movement, and it’s easy to follow his lead. It’s weird, but easy. He splays a hand at the small of your back and presses you close, holding fast like you’re keeping him breathing.

“Ashe,” you say as you pull away. He looks as if the loss of your lips against his is a physical pain, like gnawing indigestion or a headache that doesn’t know when to quit. “People might hear us.”

“I can be quiet,” is his hasty answer. “Gag me if you don’t believe me. I’d much rather be able to kiss you, but—“

Your forefinger on his lips silences him. “Slow down,” you tell him. When you’re sure he’s not going to go back to talking a mile a minute, you let your hand fall from his face. He catches it in his own, reaching out for the other as well.

He nods, swallowing hard, before speaking again. “I want this,” he says with the tone of a promise. “If you don’t, that’s okay. I’ll stop. I won’t bring it up again.”

“That’s not it,” you say. “This isn’t like you.”

“I...” he starts, but whatever he was going to say dies on his lips. He sighs, then tries something else. “Does that matter?”

“Yes,” you say. “It does.”

“Byleth,” he says, voice shaking as he grips your hands tighter, pulling you closer as you move to step back. “Please don’t make me leave you tonight.”

You feel your brows knit together as you try to think: have you ever actually done that? You’re pretty sure you’ve never actually done that. “I’m not going to,” you assure him.

“Thank you,” he breathes, and his grip slackens.

“But you’re acting strange,” you tell him, opting not to point out that if even you notice his change in behaviour, it must be drastic.

“I...” he starts, but he doesn’t get further than that. He sighs, stepping backwards. “Yeah. I suppose I am.”

“Are... no.” You’re not going to ask if he’s alright. You’ve figured that one out already. Mulling over what to say, your fist curls at your chin. “I can’t fix your days blurring together,” you tell him.

“I know,” he says. “But... I feel better when I’m with you, Byleth. If it’s not okay with you, if you don’t want to do this right now, I completely understand.”

“I do, but you’re not normally like this,” you say again for emphasis. “I’m not letting you do this to yourself if you’re just feeling out of sorts and don’t actually want to.”

“It isn’t like that.” He looks you dead in the eye. You never knew fire could be green. “I’ve never wanted anyone the way that I want you.”

You know what? You might just fuck in the tent.

“I believe you.” Your voice is hushed as you touch his arm and beckon him closer.

“Thank you,” he says, as much a sigh as it is an exaltation, and you don’t have time to tell him not to thank you before his lips are on yours. His fingers trace your neck, leaving embers in their wake. Your eyes slip closed and, blindly, you walk the two of you backward until the backs of your knees hit your cot.

Grasping Ashe’s collar, you sit on the edge of the cot, tugging him down with you. You realise you’re expecting a quiet laugh as he’s pulled into your lap, but the laugh never comes. You open your eyes. It’s hard to tell in the dark, but he’s staring.

“Ashe?”

He cups your cheek and fit another moment, all he does is look at you. Then, eyes fluttering closed, he kisses your lips, light as the autumn breeze.

Not that you object, but you’re a little confused.

“I probably shouldn’t say this,” he begins, lingering closely enough that you feel his words on your lips, “but you give me more hope than anything.”

It’s when his eyes open again that you realise you’ve neither said nor done a single thing in response. “...that can’t be true.”

He turns his head, and in the faint light you can barely make out the corners of his mouth twitching. You’ve said the wrong thing, that much is clear. “I...”

“It’s alright,” says Ashe, facing you again. “You don’t have to say anything.”

“Oh,” you reply, and he (finally) breathes a laugh.

“Come here,” he says affectionately, pulling you close and kissing you. Now this? This is less confusing. This, you know the steps to. You’re in no danger of giving the wrong answer to soft lips against your own, to hands wandering your back, finding the hem of your shirt. Your fingers sneak under his own shirt, tugging at the fabric until he gets the message. He leans back and pulls the offending garment over his head, tossing it somewhere or other. You can’t tell. You don’t care. What matters is being able to run your hands up his chest.

You have to separate again when Ashe kindly helps you slip out of your own top. He sweeps a hand under your chin, tipping your face up to better catch your lips under his own (though you thought he was doing a fine job already). His other hand finds your breast, lightly squeezing over the fabric of your breastband. Leaning into the motion, you sigh against his lips and feel him smiling.

“Is that good?” he asks softly in a voice that makes you think he already knows the answer.

“Mm,” you say, running your hands up his back.

“Good,” he says as he moves to nose at your ear. “I want you to feel good.”

“Aren’t you sweet?” you say, and his quietly breathy laugh is a light in the darkness of your tent.

His hand traces along your skin, around to where the end of your breastband is folded into itself. When he looks to you for permission, you hum a yes, and he wastes no time in unwrapping the fabric. He sets it aside — Ashe doesn’t tend to fling other people’s clothing around impatiently like you do, you’ve noticed — and goes right back to kissing you.His hands wander your body like they’ve always belonged there, and it feels so natural to go with his flow that you almost don’t notice as he pushes you to lie down beneath him.

Ashe softly sweeps the hair from your forehead and lets his fingers trace down your cheek and along your jaw. When he leans in to kiss you, you feel him smiling. You can’t help but do the same. You trail your own kisses away from his mouth, down, and when you latch onto his neck, he moans.

You pull back.

“Ashe, we have to be quiet,” you remind him.

And for a moment, he is. “I meant it when I said you could gag me,” he says, cautiously, like he’s dipping a toe into water to test its temperature.

“No,” you say immediately. “Not when you’re...” You struggle to find the words but you’ll be damned if you won’t try. “If that’s something you want, ask me again when you’re feeling better. Not after all... all that. Earlier, I mean.”

For a moment, he stills, saying nothing. “Okay,” he answers eventually. “You’re probably right.”

The tremor in his voice has you worried all over again. “Ashe?”

He sniffs. “I’m okay,” he tells you, leaning back to wipe his eye with the heel of his hand. “I’m okay, really.”

“Are you sure?” you ask, propping yourself up on your elbows as he sits back.

“Yes! Yes, I’m sure. It’s only... ah, it’s a little difficult to put into words.”

So you listen, and you wait.

“Thank you for looking out for me,” he says, finally, and his voice is small and tremulous. “It means the world.”

Lightly, you touch a hand to his wrist. “You’d do the same for me.”

He hums in assent. “Still. When it’s from you... for me, it’s...” Ashe sighs, quiet but deep, and you tighten your grip on his wrist reassuringly.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” you ask, releasing him.

“No,” he admits.

“We don’t have to do anything,” you remind him.

He shuffles off you. “I need to think,” he says quietly, perching on the very edge of the cot. You sit up, cross-legged. Though you’re not far from him, all you can make out is his silhouetted profile, miles and miles away. The cool air caresses your bare chest. You suppress a shiver.

You hug your knees to your chest, trying not to disturb the cot too much with your movements. It creaks below you regardless. At the noise, Ashe’s face turns in your direction, but just a fraction, and he looks ahead again just as quickly.

“I think,” he begins, voice cracking. He swallows. “I think I should go.” He doesn’t get up to leave. Doesn’t look your way.

“If that’s what you want.” You keep your voice neutral, tamping down the disappointment that unfurls in your gut.

“It’s... I think I should.” The cot wobbles as his feet his the ground, as his weight leaves its support.

You realise, after a moment, that you haven’t responded. “Ah,” you say, stopping to clear your throat. “Okay.”

Somewhat falteringly, he collects his clothes that lay strewn around the tent. You wonder if you should’ve offered to help. You wonder if you would’ve just gotten in the way. You wonder if there’s something you should say.

He’s dressed again and you’re still wondering. He hums. “I suppose I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says, and it sounds like a question.

“Probably,” you say. You can’t make out his face that well, and you doubt he can see yours any better, but the two of you gaze into the darkness at each other’s silhouettes for a moment longer than feels comfortable.

Ashe steps towards you. Your breathing catches, and you don’t know why. For a instant, two, three, he stands there, still and hovering above you. Then his hand brushes your cheek and he stoops to place a kiss on your forehead.

You stop breathing for a moment.

“Sorry,” Ashe mumbles, stepping back. His thumb brushes your cheek as his hand withdraws. Without meaning to, your own hand finds its way to where his had touched.

“What for?” you ask, just as hushed.

He doesn’t answer. “I’ll be going now.” He ducks his head. “Good night, Byleth.”

“Good night, Ashe,” you whisper to his back. He turns to look at you once more as he touches the flap of the tent, and then he’s gone. And you’re not sure you follow the events that led you to here: shivering, topless, alone and confused.

You draw the blanket around yourself, but don’t lie down just yet. Instead, you sit there, stewing in your thoughts. You’ve profaned the Goddess tower together, but it’s a kiss on the forehead that steals your breath. He begged you not to make him leave, then disappeared of his own accord. The flames of war consume Fódlan, yet more often than not your mind is occupied by just one person.

Before you settle down to sleep, you slide back into your night shirt. It’s too cold in your tent.

You’ve been back at the monastery for nearly a week when you crack and realise you need help.

“If I were in love with someone, I’d know.”

Claude sets his book down, looking over at you from his spot on the windowsill. “Well, hello to you too, Teach.”

Sighing through your nose, you grab the back of the nearest chair and drag it noisily along the ground, plonking it right in front of Claude’s perch and sitting. He watches you the whole time, saying nothing, giving the scrape of the chair’s legs against the floor no acknowledgement.

“You wanted me to be... introspective, right? I tried. And I know less than when I started.”

“Don’t overdo it. I’d hate to see you give yourself a headache.”

“You’re a headache,” you reply, completely lacking in venom.

Claude arches one eyebrow. “Wow. My pride’s never going to recover from that one.”

“Some might say that’s a good thing.”

“And the barbs just keep coming!”

You catch yourself smiling. That’s the power of Claude, you suppose. When you open your mouth to try talking about why you sought him out in the first place again, it doesn’t seem so challenging. So you cut right to the chase. “You think I’m in love with Ashe, even though I told you I wasn’t.”

“That’s correct,” he says, his face revealing nothing.

You’re both quiet for a moment. His face still reveals nothing. “So...” you prompt.

“So?” he echoes.

This is not going the way you’d hoped.

“So, is there something I’m missing?”

“You tell me, Teach.”

You might as well be blunt, you figure. “I don’t understand any of this.”

With a smile, he sighs, glancing one last time at his book before putting it aside. “And I can’t read your mind. Much as I have my own suspicions, I can’t tell you what you’re thinking or feeling as well as you can, yourself.”

You stare at him wordlessly, sure that at any second, he’ll realise how untrue that is.

He cocks an eyebrow. “Still can’t read your mind.”

You groan, crossing your arms and slumping in the chair. “I need your help, Claude.”

Parting his open palms, he shrugs. “Wish I could give it. To be honest, this isn’t my greatest field of expertise, shocking though that may be.”

“Nor is it mine,” you counter.

“At the risk of insulting you, that much is obvious,” he teases, and you can’t help but smile at the glint if mischief in his eye. “But,” he carries on, grinning back at you, “you’re the one with the inside scoop here. You have all the pieces. You’ve just got to put the puzzle together.”

“I don’t know how.”

Claude claps you on the shoulder. “You’ll figure it out, Teach. I’ve seen you solve hairier problems than this. Start at whatever’s eating at you the most and reverse engineer it. Follow that trail of breadcrumbs until you find your way to Ashe’s sweet gingerbread house— actually, wow, no. Don’t like how that came out.”

You snort. “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear it.”

“True friendship, that is.” He takes his book in hand again. Doesn’t open it. “Listen, I don’t think I can help you any more.”

You nod. You’re about to answer.

“But,” he goes on. “Here’s something you might want to untangle. If you’d ‘know if you were in love’, or whatever it is you’ve cooked up in that head of yours, then why are you unsure? If it were true that you’d know, how would there be any room for anything other than a flat-out yes or no? You’re obviously confused, so what does that tell you?”

Frowning, you pause a moment. “Something, I’m sure.”

Claude laughs, flicking through the book’s pages. “Might want to workshop that one, Teach.”

Ashe finally seeks you out two days later, catching you as you leave the marketplace, bags of produce hanging from your arms.

“Byleth, would you walk with me?” he asks, and he’s having trouble meeting your eye. “I... I need to speak with you about something. Oh!” He looks at the bags like he’s seeing them for the first time. “Let me help you with those, please.”

You don’t need the help, but you suspect he needs to give it, so you offer him half of your items. “These need to go to the kitchens. Come with me?”

“Of course,” he says. After that, he follows you wordlessly, offering only polite greetings to the kitchen staff you pass. Goods deposited, you beckon him out of the dining hall and into the green courtyard.

“What’s on your mind?” you ask, standing in the shade of the towering hedge walls.

Ashe scratches at his neck, meeting your gaze for just a moment before shying away. “Truthfully, I think I need to work up to it. Is that okay?”

Concern tugs at you. “Is everything alright, Ashe?”

“Yes! Please don’t worry. I just, ah... if you have the time, would you mind just... walking and talking for a while?”

If you didn’t have the time, you would make it. “Anything you need,” you tell him with a smile, and the relief on his face washes your concern away. Mostly.

So you wander the monastery grounds, talking about everything, talking about nothing. You could do this forever, you think. Walking nowhere in particular, with nowhere to be and nothing that needs doing, like there’s no war raging around you. You end up on the bridge connecting the rest of the monastery to the cathedral, a cool early evening breeze ruffling your hair. It’s a nice place to watch the sun set, but you don’t think you’ll be paying that much attention.

“We used to feed the cats,” Ashe says wistfully.

You turn to look at him, and find he’s still gazing out over the chasm, off into the distant skies. “Who?” you ask.

“Caspar and I,” he answers, eyes closing. “At the academy. I’ve seen lots of strays worse-off than the ones at the monastery, but still, I know they appreciated someone looking out for them.”

“That’s very like you,” you say, bringing forth a subdued chuckle from him.

“Quite a few of them are still hanging in there, you know. I’ll have to introduce you. Pan’s not a fan of people, but Sledgehammer’s a real sweetheart.”

“Sledgehammer,” you repeat. “Caspar’s idea?”

“Honestly, it was one of his better ones.”

“It’s perfect,” you say, resting your weight against the balustrade and joining Ashe in looking to the horizon. And then you peek back at him. He looks far away, his gaze forward but not altogether focussed.

“I don’t know how to put this, and it might come out wrong,” Ashe says, breaking the companionable silence.

You wait for him to continue.

He swallows, meeting your gaze. “I...” With a shake of his head, he tears his eyes away. He takes in a steadying breath, and you watch him steel himself. There’s a nagging pit in your stomach.

“Ashe?”

“We have to stop what we’ve been doing,” he says like he’s ripping a scab. It’s as if that’s knocked the wind from him. He still doesn’t look at you.

“Okay,” you say, mechanically, automatically, ignoring that sinking feeling that has no right to be there, because you have to, because it’s his right to end things whenever and you wouldn’t dream of arguing with that. Then, less mechanically, “did I do anything to hurt you?”

“No!” he says, whipping his head around to face you. “Not at all, Byleth. I promise. You’ve been so good to me. Sometimes I’ve felt like I’m in a dream, and... oh.” He catches himself and frowns. “I’m sorry.”

“I don’t know what you’re sorry for,” you reply, and it comes out plaintive enough that you surprise yourself.

Ashe thinks before answering. “I’m sorry I can’t explain myself,” he says, slow and measured. “I wish I could, and I know I should, but I just can’t.” His eyes dart briefly towards the cathedral before he closes them with a sigh. “I’m sorry I let this go on for so long. I shouldn’t have. It’s not fair to you.”

You feel yourself frown. “What do you mean?” you ask, a little sharper than you intended. “Don’t I get to decide what’s fair to me?”

“Of course you do,” he says in a rush. His hand leaves the railing as he swivels towards you. “But also... I know I haven’t told you everything I should have.”

“Then tell me,” you say, mirroring his stance.

“I can’t!” It’s not a shout, nor a cry. Not really. But his response is loud enough to startle you. So you pause. Take in what you see. His hands are shaking, his shoulders tense, his face pinched.

“Ashe?” You’re not sure what else to say, but you know you have to say something.

Ashe’s lips draw together and he closes his eyes. Shaking his head, he exhales. “I’m sorry,” he echoes as his hands find the railing once again.

You don’t think he needs to apologise. “It’s okay,” you say softly. Instinctively, you reach to place a comforting hand on his arm, but you catch yourself at the past moment. Can you do that any more? “I’m just worried.”

Ashe laughs, but the sound is hollow. “That’s exactly what I wanted to avoid.”

“Ashe,” you say, just firmly enough for him to open his eyes and look your way. “You know if something’s wrong, you can tell me, right?”

His gaze falls away again as his mouth curls into the tiniest of smiles. “...yeah,” he says. That’s all he says.

“But you don’t have to,” you go on. “It’s your choice. It’s all your choice. You don’t owe me anything.”

“I owe you my life,” he points out. “Really, that’s only the beginning.”

“You can make that up for me by keeping yourself alive, okay?”

The little tug at the corner of his lips brings a smile to your own. “That doesn’t sound like a very fair trade.”

“Didn’t you just agree that I get to decide what’s fair to me?” you tease, feeling bold enough to playfully nudge him with your elbow.

He sniffs a laugh, shaking his head. “Okay, okay. You got me.”

“Good. Then it’s a deal.” You wait a breath (and politely ignore him wiping his eyes) before going on. “You don’t owe me an explanation. If you want to walk away—“ (he doesn’t need to know about the way your stomach clenches when you say this) “—you don’t need to justify yourself or tell me anything you don’t want to.”

He nods, slow and pensive, a slight furrow in his brow as he thinks. “It isn’t that I don’t want to.”

You hum. “You said you can’t.”

Ashe nods again.

“Alright,” you say, shrugging and trying to make it casual. “So you can’t. I don’t get it, but that doesn’t matter. It’s still okay.”

“I...” he starts, then hums. His eyes wander towards the cathedral, and you wait, watching his face in the fading light. Maybe you shouldn’t. Maybe it’s no longer your place to notice the way the cool tones of evening play off his hair.

“If we both make it through this war,” he says, something like determination in his voice, “I’ll tell you.”

His eyes are fixed on yours, shining and sure and beautiful, and you know it’s no longer your place to so desperately want to pull him close and kiss him. So you smile and say “I look forward to it,” in a voice that doesn’t feel like your own.

Ashe smiles. “I, ah, I suppose I should go,” he says.

“If you want,” you say. What you don’t say is that you feel like you’re in the tent again, clutching blankets like a lifeline. Mostly because you feel like you’re blowing things way out of proportion, that the waves surging up around you and roaring in your ears and threatening to drown you are an overreaction.

“Good night, Byleth,” Ashe says. You barely hear him.

All you can do is return a mechanical “good night, Ashe,” as you try to invisibly stem the tides of emotions you have no right to feel.

He glances at the cathedral one last time, then turns on his heel and heads the other way down the bridge. You watch him until he disappears into the hall, and you watch the doors long after they close behind him.

You’ve been holding your breath. Not that you were aware. But you let it out, and you shake. Honestly, you could curse yourself. Ashe isn’t going anywhere. You’re not losing your friend. He just won’t be sharing your bed any more. That you’re so thrown off... well, you’re a little sickened at yourself.

Though the sun has well and truly set, there’s life in the monastery yet, and you set yourself to working until you’re exhausted. You need to distract yourself, and you might as well be useful.

By the time you get back to your quarters, it’s late, you’ve cleared too much rubble for one evening, and you’re ready to fall asleep the moment your head hits the pillow. Being ready and willing doesn’t mean you actually do fall asleep, as you discover. So, valiantly as you’ve tried to avoid it, you get to spend time alone in the dark with your feelings.

Reverse-engineer it, Claude said. Follow the breadcrumbs. Something about a gingerbread house. You can try that. Starting with why you’re so affected right now.

After giving it approximately one second’s thought, you realise it’s more complicated than losing a bedmate. Which is a relief — you didn’t like what that seemed to say about you — as much as it is a concern. Because if it’s more than that, what is it?

You find yourself thinking about how it felt to have Ashe asleep on your shoulder. How his laughter and smiles coaxed smiles and laughter out of you in turn. How you felt with just the two of you alone together, doing nothing but talking, or even just lying in each other’s arms. How you feel—

Oh.

**Author's Note:**

> @[moonberrytxt](http://twitter.com/moonberrytxt) on twitter!


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